


Like a Blade Forged in Fire

by Lialathuveril



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Fourth Age, Humor, Post-War of the Ring, Rohan (Tolkien), Romance, Strong Female Characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:48:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 40,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28654488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lialathuveril/pseuds/Lialathuveril
Summary: How do you court a woman without her noticing? Bartered away to a Harad prince by her uncle Denethor, Lothíriel is left a widow by the War of the Ring. Disillusioned with love and men, the last thing she wants is another alliance for political reasons. Which presents Éomer of Rohan with a slight problem… (AU)
Relationships: Éomer Éadig & Lothíriel, Éomer Éadig/Lothíriel
Comments: 186
Kudos: 157





	1. Prologue

_A/N: We know so little about Lothíriel_ , _only her date of birth and the fact that she married Éomer of Rohan. So strictly speaking the only AU element in this story is that I’ve made her a few years older. However, I’m sure this is not what Tolkien had in mind of how the two met - but then the same can be said about my other scenarios ;-)_

 _Anyway, I hope you_ _’ll enjoy this ride and that it will cheer you up in these difficult times. The story is finished and just needs a final revision, so I promise to post faithfully._

_Keep safe!_

**Prologue**

_City of Serpents, 3012 Third Age_

Even the stars were strange. Lothíriel caught a brief glimpse of the night sky as they were escorted from one courtyard to the next, deeper into the sprawling palace. This far south, Eärrámë, called after Tuor’s legendary ship, sailed high above the horizon, its keel glittering with a bright white star. In Gondor only the prow was visible.

Like nothing else it made her realise how far they were from all that was familiar: her country, her family, her home. Hundreds of leagues lay between her and the mist-wreathed shores of Belfalas. Shores she would never see again.

A hand touched her lightly on the arm. Looking up, she found her brother Erchirion regarding her gravely. She tried to smile at him, but did not succeed too well to judge from his deepening frown.

“Just think,” she said in an effort to distract him. “We must be the first Gondorians in centuries to set foot in the City of Serpents.” Except for captured slaves, of course.

Her brother refused to take the bait. “Lothíriel,” he said, “you can still change your mind.”

Yes, and have him and his men die for nothing. It was no coincidence that their father had only included unmarried swan knights, all volunteers, in her escort. But she would not let them throw their lives away.

“I know what I’m doing,” she answered him, trying hard to believe her own words. “All will be well.”

How fine it had sounded in Denethor’s study in Minas Tirith, such a brave and gallant thing to do for Gondor. Discussed over a glass of mulled wine, with her uncle’s rare approval warming her as much as the cosy fire burning in the hearth, she had only seen the opportunity to do something to aid her beloved country. Not even her father’s horrified reaction had made a dent in that confidence, not when the Steward himself threw his weight behind the plan.

A warrior for Gondor, like a blade forged from grace and beauty, her uncle had called her, making Lothíriel feel flattered not to be treated like a child anymore. Now that warrior faced her first battle. And she would not bring shame on her ancestors, Lothíriel vowed, though so poorly armed. One additional weapon she still had: her wits. Perhaps she would need those most of all.

Ahead of them a massive pair of doors was thrown open. They entered a big hall lit by golden lamps hanging from the ceiling. Courtiers in richly coloured robes, emerald, sapphire and topaz, filled the room, eyeing them curiously. Their escort of guards stayed behind, leaving them to cross the floor on their own, their steps sounding loudly on the polished marble.

Lothíriel found her gaze drawn to the other end of the hall, where a throne stood on a raised dais, sheltered by a canopy shaped in the form of a snake’s head, its hood spread wide and fangs exposed. Men there, one sitting on the throne and three standing beside it, all wore scarlet. At another time she might have enjoyed the riot of rich colours and tried to capture it in a drawing, but now her throat went dry. She was suddenly glad that she would not be required to say much or she might have disgraced herself.

They came to a halt ten steps from the throne, as instructed by the courtier who had brought their invitation to the audience. Erchirion and his knights bowed, and she sank into a deep curtsy. A whisper ran through the crowd as it became clear they would not give the prostration on the floor demanded by royal protocol. Lothíriel held her breath. Her brother had been adamant not to taint Gondor’s honour in that way. She wasn’t quite sure if it was foolish or wise when they dealt from such a position of weakness. On the other hand they had very little to lose: only their lives.

“Welcome to Harad,” a gruff voice said. “We are pleased to receive visitors from so far away.”

She exhaled her breath and straightened up.

“You are most gracious, my lord king,” Erchirion answered. “It is an honour to be here.”

King Hyarmendacil studied them, hair greying but eyes shrewd. It seemed bizarre that they all had names of Númenórean kings of old, especially since the first king of that name had fought and subjugated the Haradrim. However, they traced their lineage back to Castamir, instigator of the kin-strife more than a thousand years ago. Considered a usurper in Gondor, here he was held to have been the true king and they themselves his heirs and rightful rulers of Gondor. Not that Denethor would ever acknowledge their claim of course.

While her brother exchanged more courtly pleasantries, she surreptitiously studied the three men to the right of the throne, who all wore heavy golden torcs. King Hyarmendacil’s sons had the reputation of being great warriors and they looked it: powerfully built, hands on the curved scimitars by their sides, their attention on the threat offered by Erchirion and his knights. Her they disregarded for the moment. Involuntarily, Lothíriel’s palms grew damp with sweat. Which of them was the crown prince?

Her brother waved forward two of his men to present the chest of gifts they had brought with them, pearls and amber from Belfalas, a set of finely crafted daggers traded from the dwarves of the Lonely Mountain and lavishly embroidered robes of brocade and velvet. Last and finest was a gyrfalcon from the north, its plumage silvery white, the hood and jesses dyed scarlet. It gave a piercing cry when handed over to one of the king’s servants; a murmur of appreciation ran through the crowd.

When King Hyarmendacil leaned forward eagerly to inspect this exotic addition to his mews, Lothíriel could not help feeling a certain kinship with the bird. Her father’s head falconer had trained it exhaustively to make sure it would return to its master’s hand and not embarrass the king, but it at least had a chance of escaping captivity.

In return King Hyarmendacil had his slaves bring in a set of enormous mûmak tusks, caskets of precious stones and bags of cloves, nutmeg and other spices. Lothíriel wondered how her brother would ever manage to bring the tusks home. She wasn’t quite sure either whether they were meant as a gift or a threat.

These were only the preliminaries anyway. The biggest gift was still to be exchanged.

As if on cue, the king clapped his hands. A richly dressed adviser carrying a parchment with bright scarlet seals affixed to it stepped forward and proceeded to read it out in a sonorous voice. This was it, the pledge of peace between Harad and Gondor that Denethor had spent more than a year negotiating. It might not last forever, but it would give her country a breather, time to build up her defences. A reprieve needed so badly that her uncle had been willing to trade his most valuable bargaining piece for it.

A sudden wave of longing for her father rushed through her. If only she could run to him and be caught up in his embrace, like she used to as a child. Then, he had possessed the power to make everything right in her world. But not anymore, now she just had herself. By her own choice, she reminded herself.

The adviser had reached the last clause of the treaty. “And as a sign of the eternal friendship binding mighty Gondor and glorious Harad, an alliance by marriage shall be forged between Crown Prince Arantar, known as the blade of Harad, scourge of its enemies, lion of the desert, and the daughter of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, Lord of Belfalas, high lord of Gondor.” Lothíriel could not help noticing that her name wasn’t even mentioned.

Nevertheless, if one day a grandson of the Prince of Dol Amroth sat on the serpent throne, more favourably inclined towards Gondor, that would be her doing.

Erchirion offered her his arm. Taking a deep breath, she placed her fingers on it and stepped forward. Their eyes met for a single moment, and in his she read the willingness to die here for her. With her, for none of them would make it home. But the time to change her mind was long past.

Deliberately she turned to face the man descending from the raised dais: black haired and dark skinned, moving with a swordsman’s grace. Had she drawn a picture of him, she would have titled it ‘son of the desert’, for he was all sharp angles, like a rock scoured by wind and sand to expose razor thin edges.

His eyes examined her sharply, but after a moment he smiled. Pleased with what he saw?

He accepted her hand from Erchirion, her brother stepping back with a bow, and with a gesture invited her to kneel with him before his father, who would preside over their marriage vows. His skin was warm and dry under her touch. Could he feel the tremble running through her?

Luckily the vows were all read out for them by the adviser and all she had to do was assent, which she managed to do in a calm voice that did not seem to belong to her. At the end Prince Arantar placed a golden torc, identical to his own, around her neck, where it settled like a heavy yoke. It took all her willpower not to flinch when his fingers briefly brushed across her collar bone.

She was a princess of Harad now. A feeling of disbelief filled her. How had a discussion in her uncle’s snug, fire-lit study, its walls panelled in warm brown oak, led to this man in scarlet and black in a hall of pale marble?

All through the flowery speeches that followed, wishing them marital happiness and many children, she stood in a daze, watching herself smile and nod at the right places as if from outside. To her relief the prince took it upon himself to thank their well-wishers, which he did in a deep, firm voice.

He still held her hand in a light clasp, the only warm spot in a body whose veins were slowly filling with ice. Dispassionately she wondered why nobody spotted the transformation from living, breathing woman to a creature of chill frost. She would not have been surprised to see ice flowers form on the smooth floor around her feet.

Suddenly she became aware that silence had descended on the hall. The prince turned to her. “Time to retire, my lady.”

Her armour of ice shattered abruptly. Retire? So soon? Hot panic swept through her.

Prince Arantar must have read some of her feelings on her face, for he squeezed her hand as if in warning. “It is customary for husband and wife to share a light repast together. Come.”

He took her arm and gently led her towards the door. The wedding guests clapped their hands, and slaves threw rose petals on the floor for them to tread on. Recalled to her senses, she did her best to stamp down on her alarm and walked at his side meekly. She was the daughter of the Prince of Dol Amroth, descended from warriors, she would not break in front of all these strangers.

At the door she cast a last look back over her shoulder. Would she ever see her brother again? Erchirion’s face was bored and distant, a sure sign that he was struggling with his composure. Suddenly she was glad that Amrothos was not along. Her twin, who always knew what she was thinking, would never have held back.

But they had their treaty and a safe conduct from King Hyarmendacil. She had bought them that. Now it was time to face her own personal battle. She would fight it bravely and conduct herself honourably, even if nobody in Gondor would ever learn of it.

***

Outside the door, a dozen guards dressed all in black fell in around them, eyes cold and vigilant. The prince ignored them as if he was so used to them he did not even see them anymore and guided her down a hallway. They all moved in utter silence, the only sound the soft swish of her sandals on the stone floor. Had she closed her eyes, she might have imagined herself alone – if it hadn’t been for her husband’s grip on her arm, gentle but ready to turn to iron at a wrong movement from her. Her husband… she considered the concept in her mind, but could not really believe it applied to her.

After a while they came to a door made of wrought iron, decorated with golden snakes and guarded by four of the biggest Haradrim she had seen yet.

“The royal apartments,” Prince Arantar announced. “The only men allowed beyond these doors are the king and his sons.”

Lothíriel jumped at finding herself addressed. “Is that so, my lord,” she answered, awkwardly groping for commonplaces. They had not exchanged any words except their wedding vows.

The doors swung open, and they stepped through, leaving their black clad escort behind. To her surprise the guards on the other side all were women, armed with twin swords riding on their backs.

Recognising the prince, their leader saluted him by placing a fist on her heart. “Your royal highness. Be welcome.”

He nodded at her. “Khuri, this is my wife. Make sure you guard her well.”

Lothíriel found herself seized up from top to toe. The woman looked immensely capable, strong but supple, with the balance and skill earned by countless hours in the practice ring.

“Yes, my lord,” she answered. “I will guard what is yours with my life.” It did not sound like empty words.

Which presumably also included making sure Lothíriel did not leave the royal apartments without her husband’s consent. Well, she had never planned on any such stupid escapades as trying to run away. That would have defeated the purpose of forging a peace treaty.

With Khuri leading the way, Prince Arantar turned down another corridor. Yet here there lingered a hint of perfume in the air, and Lothíriel fancied she could hear women’s voices and music. Then Khuri pushed open another door for them and took up a guarding stance next to it. With a brief nod of acknowledgement the prince stepped through.

Lothíriel felt Prince Arantar relax almost imperceptibly as Khuri closed the door behind them. If she hadn’t been so tightly strung herself, she might not have noticed.

“These are your chambers, my lady,” he said.

Hers? Not his? A lofty suite met her eyes, lit by ornamental lamps hanging from the ceiling, its walls covered in gauzy drapes in cream and pale gold. Doorways gave glimpses of further rooms leading off from the entrance.

Facing them knelt three servant girls, who blended into the marble in their plain white dresses, their foreheads touching the floor.

“They are yours too,” the prince said, dropping her arm. He gave her a courtly bow. “I am sure you will want to freshen up. Excuse me while I too change into something more comfortable. I will see you in the garden, my lady.”

He added a few words in Haradric that sounded like an order, addressed in the direction of the women kneeling on the floor, and strode out one of the doorways.

Off balance, Lothíriel stared after him. She could not help feeling like a parcel delivered to the servants to be neatened up. On the other hand, she told herself, it beat being ravished on the spot.

Bowing deeply, the three girls conducted her through a couple more chambers into what seemed to be a changing room with dresses laid ready and an array of perfume bottles and jewellery caskets on a low table. In an adjoining chamber she caught a glimpse of a large bed, covered in a scarlet bedspread, and went cold. But no, he had said he would see her in the garden. She would not have to nerve herself to face that quite yet.

One of the girls began to undo the braids Lothíriel had arranged her hair in, another knelt to take off her sandals and the third loosened the laces of her dress and slipped it off her shoulders. She was used to being attended by maids, but these three were like timid little mice.

They had gentle hands, sponging her down with scented water and brushing out her hair. She had worn a dress in her favourite smoky blue, matching the colour of her eyes, but it and every stitch of her clothing got whisked away to be replaced by a robe of scarlet silk. The strings of pearls wound into her braids, her bracelets, the little jewelled knife for cutting her food all had to go too. It was as if they wanted to erase her past.

Lothíriel did not protest. She knew she would have to pick her battles carefully, and what colour clothes she wore did not define her. It was a good thing she had the traditional Númenórean colouring of black hair and pale skin though. Elphir’s wife Aerin with her glorious copper hair would have looked ghastly in scarlet. The thought of her elegant sister-in-law’s horror at such an idea almost made her smile.

Only one piece of jewellery she refused to give up, a silver ring with a single lustrous pearl that had been her mother’s. “This I keep,” she told the maid who wanted to slip it off her finger.

Though the woman hesitated, she did not insist. Instead they decked her out in gold: gossamer chains woven into her hair, earrings, armlets and ankle bracelets. Together with the heavy torc at her throat it would have been enough to buy and provision one of her father’s war galleys. She felt rather ostentatious, but the maids seemed satisfied, even relaxing and smiling at her as they dabbed an exotic scent on her wrists. Did they think their master would be pleased with their efforts? Finally they stepped back and bowed again.

“Thank you,” Lothíriel said, forcing a smile. “How do I say that in Haradric?”

“You would say _Kah-set-rah_ , my lady,” one of them answered in a shy voice.

“ _Kah-set-rah,_ _”_ Lothíriel repeated, and they bowed even deeper. She squared her shoulders. “Where do I find the garden?”

They showed her the way through another large chamber and out a doorway curtained with more gauzy drapes. If she wasn’t careful, she would get lost in her own rooms.

The palace gardens were like nothing she had ever seen, arranged on several levels in a riot of different shapes and with lamps dotted about everywhere. Pale, night blooming flowers hung down from small trees, and the path winding through this carefully tended jungle offered a series of different textures to her bare feet.

She rounded a corner to find a small pool with a fountain in the centre, surrounded by a mosaic floor. Cushions were scattered about on thick carpets, and on a low table stood dozens of dishes of fruit, pastry and other food. Was this the light repast the prince had mentioned? Yet there was no sign of him.

Several paths converged on the courtyard, and curious as to where they led, she took the widest one. From the trees either side hung ornate cages, each one a work of art, holding different birds, some of them asleep, others hopping about. Nightingales were pouring out their song, but fell silent when she approached.

The path ended at a closed gate in the encircling wall. Lothíriel hesitated, her hand on the bar securing the door, and traced the pattern of entwined snakes carved into the wood. She was probably not supposed to go any farther.

“That leads into the main garden,” Prince Arantar said behind her.

With a gasp she spun round, her heart in her mouth. “Don’t creep up on me like that,” she snapped. Then she froze, appalled at her words. “My apologies, my lord prince,” she said quickly. “You startled me, being so silent.”

The prince looked taken aback. “I didn’t mean to.” He gave a stiff bow. “My lady, do not be afraid. Only my enemies need fear me.”

“And being Gondorian, I am not an enemy anymore?” She could not help wondering how long the peace treaty would hold.

“Marrying me makes you Haradrim,” he answered. “You’re mine.” He said it quite simply, as if that was the only thing that mattered. And perhaps to him it was.

Lothíriel looked away. How easily he brushed away everything that had defined her as being of no consequence. But she was her own and always would be. However, she did not say so aloud. Not being counted as a Gondorian was probably for the best.

Searching for something to give their conversation a different turn, she motioned at the gate. “Did you say there is another garden?”

“Yes, it’s shared amongst all the royal ladies. You can have a look tomorrow. They will be pleased to meet you.”

And would they make her welcome, Lothíriel wondered. She hoped so, or hers would be a lonely existence.

They turned back towards the courtyard with the fountain, past the trees holding the cages, where one of the nightingales had taken up its song again, heartbreakingly beautiful. Of course the royal apartments were themselves one big cage, just built to hold different creatures.

The prince walked at her side silent and sleek as big cat on the prowl, but not touching her. She stole a look at him out of the corner of her eye. He had changed into a light robe and discarded his scimitar, though he still wore a knife at his belt. His black hair was caught up with a golden clasp at the nape of his neck, and the lamps threw his profile into sharp relief. A strong face that would be interesting to draw, she thought, the dark eyes watchful and guarded.

Lothíriel could well believe his words that his enemies need fear him. And his wife? She had seen his gaze snag on the pearl ring on her finger, though he had said nothing. Her small act of disobedience had apparently been allowed to pass, at least for the moment.

At the pool they settled on the cushions, him lounging comfortably, her more stiff, not being used to sitting on the floor. Lotus blossoms floated on the water, some natural, some carved from ivory and holding candles. She eyed the food, her stomach reminding her that she had hardly eaten a thing all day. Since he did not seem in any immediate rush to ravish her, could she at least fill her belly first? Those grapes really looked delicious.

However, Prince Arantar did not help himself to anything, so she folded her hands in her lap, unsure if she would offend him if she ate while he didn’t. An awkward silence descended.

He cleared his throat. “You are the hostess, my lady. I’m merely your guest.”

It took her a moment to understand. “May I offer you something to eat and drink?” she asked.

He inclined his head. “You are most gracious. I will have some wine.”

She poured two glasses of red wine from an earthenware pot cooling in the water and handed him one. Then she gestured to the dishes, feeling a bit silly to playact in such a manner. “Would you like to partake of the food?”

“Thank you, the _shashrani_ look delicious,” he answered.

The what? At her baffled look, he took pity on her and indicated a plate of skewers of meat and vegetables. Under his subtle guidance she assembled a platter of his favourite foods. Would she be expected to do this always? What if she served him something he disliked? Although the cooks probably knew his preferences.

Her husband being provided for, she took a sip of the wine, a light sweet vintage, and nibbled a saffron cake. There were so many blunders she could make, being a stranger. If she was to survive and prosper, she needed allies, and this man was the most valuable one. And she meant to carve out a place for herself. A blade for Gondor her uncle had called her. She intended to prove him true.

So she smiled at her husband. “You must forgive me my ignorance of your customs, my lord. I would be grateful if you helped me understand them.”

His eyes warmed with approval. “Of course you are a stranger to our ways. I would be happy to instruct you.”

“You are very kind. Would you mind explaining what it means when you say you are my guest?” she asked, choosing her words carefully. It felt a bit as if she was petting a tiger.

“The City of Serpents lies at the heart of Harad. And in its turn the palace lies at the heart of the city. And this place…” He gestured at the garden. “… lies at the heart of the palace. Here we keep our most precious treasures: the royal wives and children. My task is to keep you safe.” From what, Lothíriel wondered. But he wasn’t finished yet. “The world outside is my responsibility, to rule wisely and protect from enemies. This world within is yours to order, to make into a space of peace and beauty. That’s why I have my own rooms in another wing of the palace. Here I merely visit, a guest of yours.”

That surprised her into a question. “So could I have thrown you out?” A moment later she wished the words back.

But he laughed. It transformed him, making him look younger and carefree. She got the impression it was not something he did often.

He took her hand and breathed a kiss on her fingers. “Surely my lovely wife would not break her husband’s heart?” The words came smoothly, but there was an undercurrent of heat in them.

Lothíriel looked away, her pulse beating faster. “Of course not.” Casting about for something to say, she freed her fingers under the pretence of smoothing out her robe. “What an extraordinarily rich colour. I’ve never seen its like before, do you know how it’s made?”

He leant back on his cushions, apparently willing to bide his time. “Royal scarlet is made from some kind of insect, I believe.”

Genuinely intrigued, she straightened up. “An insect, really? I wonder if you could make paint from it?”

“I have no idea.” He seemed surprised at her sudden enthusiasm.

“Do you think I could visit a dyer to find out?”

He hesitated. “The royal ladies do not usually leave the palace.”

“Never?”

At her dismay he spread his hands. “Only to travel to our summer residences in the country. The city is a place fraught with danger, full of thieves and beggars, not fitting for a gently bred lady like you.”

She remembered the many poor people they had seen on their journey south, swept aside by their escort. The contrast to the riches of the court had been stark. “So what do royal ladies do all day?”

He took a sip of wine. “I don’t rightly know. Make themselves beautiful? Some play musical instruments or dance.”

It sounded suffocating. At home she was out riding or hunting most days. Surely it could not be all that dangerous to leave the palace, not with guards along? However, she did not voice her thoughts. Perhaps in time she could persuade him to take her on an outing.

“I’m looking forward to meeting the other ladies,” she said.

The prince popped a grape in his mouth. “They will be honoured. But make sure to remember your rank.”

“What do you mean?” Navigating this court felt a lot like travelling in unchartered waters.

“One day your sons will rule Harad. You defer to the queen, but to nobody else.”

Lothíriel’s throat went dry. First she would have to produce those sons. “Very well.”

“The king’s secondary wives do not wear the royal torc,” he added. “You outrank them.”

Secondary wives? “Does your father have many?” she blurted out.

“Six of them.”

That was an entirely new concept. “Doesn’t your mother mind?” she asked.

His eyes grew hooded. “My mother died giving birth to me. Queen Malirasha is my father’s second wife.”

“Oh. I’m so sorry.” She felt a sudden kinship, for she hardly remembered her own mother, who had succumbed to a fever when she was a small child.

However, he waved her sympathy away. “It doesn’t matter. You do not miss what you’ve never known.”

Did he believe that? But she did not want to press a sore point. “So how many do you have yourself?” she asked diffidently.

“How many of what?”

“Wives.”

“Ah.” He considered her for a moment. “Just one very beautiful wife. She’s all I need.”

Trying not to show him how much he flustered her, Lothíriel inclined her head at the compliment. “You are very kind.” Apparently she would have his undivided attention. Was that a good thing or not?

Her cool response seemed to amuse him. He leant back on his elbow, picked up a tiny tartlet filled with pomegranate seeds and offered it to her. “Have you tried one of these yet, my lady?”

Accepting it brought her close enough that her loose hair brushed his arm. She tensed, half expecting him to seize her. However, he just followed her every move with his dark eyes.

Hastily she sat back down on her cushion. “ _Kah-set-rah_ , my lord,” she thanked him, using her newly acquired Haradric.

He choked on his food. “What?”

Startled, Lothíriel dropped the tartlet. “Isn’t that right? I’ve been meaning to learn your language. Did I mispronounce the words?”

Prince Arantar was frowning at her. “Haradric is difficult to learn. It has many different modes of address, depending on who is speaking to whom, woman to man, inferior to superior, and whether the situation is formal or relaxed.”

Her heart sinking, she bit her lip. “So what did I just use?”

“The mode of a noblewoman talking to a female slave.”

“Oh.”

“It is proper that you should learn our language, and I will arrange for a tutor, perhaps one of the many younger princesses,” he said in a milder voice. “But until you’ve mastered the finer points of Haradric, I ask that you will confine yourself to speaking it in your quarters only.”

It seemed she had blundered badly. Vowing to be more careful in the future, she bowed her head. “I’m sorry, my lord. I did not mean to offend you.”

“It is for your own sake, for not everybody is as forbearing as me. Had you spoken thus to my father or brothers…” He hesitated. “… they would have taken deep insult.”

“I won’t,” she promised. What would they have done?

He must have heard the alarm in her voice. “Do not worry, my lady. I protect what is mine,” he said. “And I’m sure you will pick up Haradric quickly.”

She moistened her lips. “So what would be the proper way to say thank you?”

“It depends on the occasion. In a formal setting at court, as a noblewoman addressing the crown prince of Harad, you would say ‘ _Kah-tar-murakha_ ’. As a wife speaking to your husband, the head of the household, the proper form would be ‘ _Kah-tar-arat_ ’.” He lowered his voice. “And in a more intimate setting, just the two of us in private, you would use ‘ _Kah-resh-minoo_ ’.” Casually he offered her another of the small tartlets.

She accepted both the food and the implied challenge, their fingers touching briefly. Sweet and juicy, the pomegranate seeds left a refreshingly tangy aftertaste on her tongue. “ _Kah-resh-minoo_ , my lord.”

His eyes glinted, and she felt her cheeks heat at the way his glance lingered on her. He had loosened his belt, allowing his robe to gape open, showing a heavily muscled chest. Her own silken dressing gown seemed about as flimsy a covering as sea foam.

“You’re an apt pupil. It’s a pleasure to teach you.”

She couldn’t help it, she blushed further. “More wine?” she asked in an effort to distract him.

“Please.” He held out his glass for her to refill it. “ _Kah-resh-minay_ , Lothíriel.”

It was the first time he had used her name, and he seemed to savour it as if drinking a fine vintage. Somehow he had also ended up sitting much closer to her, within touching distance. She made herself relax. There were worse situations than being showered with compliments by a husband bent on seducing her.

And anyway, she had always known she was destined for an arranged marriage, even if she had imagined something closer to home. There was not all that much difference to some of the other possible aspirants to her hand: Forlong the Fat, who had recently buried his third wife, Lord Minardil of Pelargir, hailing from her grandfather’s generation, or that crown prince of the Rohirrim, who surely also had to be getting a bit long in the tooth by now.

So when he reached over to twine his fingers in her hair, she did not flinch. And yet he must have felt her tense.

With a smile he traced a gentle finger across her cheek. “Do not be afraid, Lothíriel. It’s natural for a bride to be nervous on her wedding night, knowing she will have to submit to her husband. But I swear you have nothing to fear from me.”

Lothíriel lifted her chin. She did not like him to think her weak. “I’m not afraid. I’m the daughter of warriors.” And in truth, though she still felt wary of offending him, her earlier alarm was gone.

He chuckled. “Spoken bravely. However, I do not intend to do battle with you.”

The man enjoyed to make her blush. And before she could come up with a suitable answer, he bent forward and captured her lips in a kiss.

Lothíriel’s pulse sped up. He tasted of spices and wine, sending her senses into a whirl. It was all so new and unfamiliar, being caught against a hard chest, his musky male scent, the possessive hand sliding inside her robe, hot like a brand on her bare skin.

After a moment he drew back. Looking down at her, he seemed satisfied with what he saw. “My father was pleased with his gyrfalcon,” he murmured, “but I think I have caught by far the rarer bird.”

Breathless, Lothíriel matched his gaze. “Yet sooner or later a falconer has to let his bird fly free.”

His mouth curved into a smile. “If I did, would she come back to my hand?”

“Perhaps,” she conceded.

_A/N: E_ _ärrámë is the constellation Argo Navis (nowadays divided into three pieces) with Canopus on its keel, the second brightest star in the heavens_


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

_Dol Amroth, 3020 Third Age_ – _eight years later_

The ocean stretched below him, vast and empty except for a few fishing boats bringing home the day’s catch. Éomer paused on the ramparts of the castle, contemplating the blue immensity of the Bay of Belfalas, its colour slowly changing to gold in the light of the setting sun.

Seeing it for the first time that morning had taken his breath away, like a bodily shock running through him. Gulls swooped past him with raucous cries, and as he watched them dive off the cliff something tugged at his soul. At last he understood his friend Legolas’s sea-longing.

But he wanted to see the sea up close. Where was that gate Amrothos had mentioned? A moment later he spotted it at the foot of one of the sentry towers. Recognising him, two guards saluted as he approached. A third man sitting in one of the embrasures giving a view of the ocean looked up. He had been polishing his sword, but now lowered it to his lap, where rested another blade, and regarded him piercingly.

Éomer nearly stumbled. Not a man but a woman. And one who handled the long, curved scimitar as if she knew how to use it. A shieldmaiden here in Gondor? He had never heard of any, and this one, all dressed in black, had the look of a veteran, tough and sinewy. Her eyes assessed him, no friendliness in them at all. Instinctively he sought the hilt of his own sword. However, after a moment she bent back to her task, ignoring him.

“You’ll be wanting to go down to the beach, my lord?” one of the men asked, swinging the gate open. “Just be careful, the path is steep.”

Éomer thanked him, half his attention still on the woman. Not until he was on the steps leading down to the seashore did he relax again. Which was ridiculous. To be allowed to bear weapons inside the castle of Dol Amroth, she had to be one of Imrahil’s guards, an ally. And yet he knew a threat when he encountered it.

Shaking his head at such wild fancies, he concentrated on the stairs instead. They were steep indeed, but a rope had been strung to serve as a handrail, anchored to the rock every few steps. Below, a strip of sand beckoned, sheltered by a breakwater stretching out into the sea. Amrothos had told him the beach was fairly private, overlooked by the sentries above, but accessible only from the castle or by boat.

Soon he stepped out onto the beach, the unfamiliar tang of salt in the air even stronger here, while sand stretched out before him, washed clean by the sea. The water lapped the shore gently, each wave receding with a soft sigh, but seeing the way the ocean had gnawed at the rock on which the castle stood, he could well believe it wasn’t always so.

He didn’t have the beach completely to himself though. Out on the breakwater stood a woman, watching the setting sun. To Éomer she was nothing but a slim, graceful silhouette against the darkening sky, the wind teasing her long black hair. She hadn’t noticed him, and he enjoyed the sight for a moment, but then strolled along the seashore the other way to give her privacy.

Clumps of seaweed dotted the beach, and crabs scuttled away at his approach. After a few steps Éomer took off his boots and wriggled his toes in the sand, still warm from the sun. Back home in the Riddermark winter still ruled, but in this southern land spring had already arrived. The water was cold though he found when he waded through the surf.

From up ahead he suddenly heard voices. Passing a rocky outcropping, he came upon another crescent shaped beach with a small stream trickling down the steep cliff face and into the sea. Two young boys were busy piling up stones to dam the water and redirect it into the moat of their sandcastle.

At his approach they looked up. Éomer recognised Alphros, Prince Elphir’s son. He had met the whole family the year before at the celebrations on the Fields of Cormallen. There the boy had been impeccably turned out, but now he looked like an urchin, his clothes full of sand and hair in a wild tangle. As for his companion, who seemed to be about the same age, he was wet and muddy all over, as if he had fallen in a puddle.

“King Éomer,” Alphros exclaimed. As one who had been drilled in manners from the moment he could walk, he executed a very creditable bow.

“Don’t let me interrupt you,” Éomer told him. “That’s a splendid castle you’re building.”

“Thank you,” Alphros answered. “It’s Minas Tirith, but better, with a moat.” He pointed to a stick with some desiccated seaweed on top. “And that’s King Elessar.”

Suppressing a grin, Éomer duly admired his friend’s likeness. Straightening up, he found the other boy regarding him critically. Darker skinned than Alphros, he had the same easy self-assurance as his friend. The son of one of Imrahil’s knights?

“I’m a king too,” the boy suddenly announced

Alphros elbowed him in the side. “Tarcil, you’re not supposed to say that.”

Tarcil lifted his chin. “I am though. Mother says I shouldn’t tell people, but since you’re a king too, I can tell you.”

Éomer smiled. It seemed a harmless enough fantasy. “In that case I’m honoured to meet a fellow ruler.”

The boy gave him a brilliant smile. “Me too.” He put his head to one side. “Mother also says that it’s boring being a king, that you have to sit around all day, listening to advisers.”

Éomer had to grimace, thinking of the hours spent in the council chamber. Especially lately there had been no getting away from having to discuss the virtues of the many candidates to his hand. “Your mother is wise.”

“When I grow up,” Alphros declared, “I will be the Prince of Dol Amroth. That’s much better. Then I can stay up as long as I want to.”

His friend looked envious. It seemed being a Prince of Dol Amroth trumped being a king.

That moment the sound of a trumpet rang out from the ramparts above. The boys looked with regret at their unfinished castle.

“We have to go back,” Alphros said. “That’s the sign to get ready for the evening meal.”

“Mother promised there will be custard pies for afters if we’re good,” Tarcil reminded him.

His mother seemed to be not only wise, but also well versed in the art of bribery, for the two picked up their discarded shoes and headed back towards the path up to the castle. Éomer accompanied them, amused at their chatter. They reminded him of his friend Éothain’s lively brood of children.

When they got back to the main beach, they found the woman who had stood on the breakwater making her way back towards the shore. He didn’t think she had seen them yet, for she was concentrating on hopping from one rock to the next. Éomer had thought he had been introduced to all Gondor’s womanhood, at least the marriageable part, but he had never met her before. A shame, he thought, when he got a glimpse of a shapely leg.

As if she had felt his eyes on her, she froze and looked up, wary as a deer hearing a hunter’s step. But it was only for a moment, then she lightly ran the last few yards and jumped down on the sand.

Turning to face them, her face lit up with a beautiful smile, eyes sparkling and full of joy. For the second time that day Éomer’s breath caught in amazement and wonder. He felt as if somebody had hit him in the chest.

Tarcil went running. “Alphros and I built a castle,” he called. “And we caught a big crab.”

Still smiling, the woman knelt down and spread out her arms. “Did you let it go again?”

“Of course, Mummy. We put it back where we found it, like you always tell us to.”

_Mummy?_

The words were like a punch to the stomach. This was Tarcil’s mother, who thought kings led boring lives. She was married. He was too late.

Éomer shook his head, which was ringing as if he had fallen from a horse. What had got into him?

She straightened up and took the boy by the hand, holding out the other to Alphros. “Look at the two of you. What have you done, wallowed in the mud like piglets?”

The boys grinned at her, not the least fooled by her stern tone.

Tarcil tugged at her arm. “He’s a king too,” he confided in a loud whisper, nodding at Éomer.

“Ah.” Her eyes measured Éomer thoughtfully. She was elegantly but sombrely dressed in dark grey, and at her throat gold glinted, a heavy torc the like of which he had never seen before. It seemed an unusual adornment for a Gondorian lady, but he had to admit it accentuated the graceful line of her neck.

Sinking into a quick curtsy, she gave him a polite smile. It had none of the radiance and love lavished on her son in it, and Éomer felt a pang at the lack.

“King Éomer of Rohan?” she asked. “I’m honoured to meet you.”

His manners belatedly caught up with him; he bowed. “The honour is mine, Lady…?”

“I’m Lothíriel of…” She paused a moment. “… of Dol Amroth.”

What did that make her? A relative of Imrahil’s herself or the wife of one? She had the easy self-assurance that came with high rank, strangely at odds with the wariness she had displayed upon first catching sight of him. But perhaps he had imagined that.

“It’s a lucky chance I should meet you here,” she now said. “I had meant to talk to you.”

He realised he was still staring at her and berated himself. He had no business ogling another man’s wife. “Yes?” he asked. What could she want from him?

She hesitated. “We will be expected at dinner, but perhaps I might have a few moments of your time later.” She straightened her shoulders. “I have a favour to ask.”

“Anything you wish.”

She gave him a startled look.

Éomer tried to gather his scattered wits. “Eh, I mean I’m happy to assist any friend of Imrahil’s.”

She inclined her head. “You are very kind, my lord. It’s not urgent, but if I may, I will seek you out sometime before you leave.”

“Please do. I’m here for a week.”

A moment later Éomer thought that she surely knew as much, since Imrahil had planned a series of entertainments. She would think him a dimwit. However, she just inclined her head again and while leading the way back up to the castle engaged him in the kind of polite conversation Gondorian ladies excelled at, asking about his journey from Emyn Arnen, the weather and enquiring after fellow acquaintances.

Usually that sort of talk drove him to distraction, but for once he was grateful. Hopefully it would give him the time to regain his wits.

***

In all the time he’d known his friend, Éomer had never seen Imrahil flustered. The man was as much at home on the battlefield, gallantly facing down an orc horde, as in the Hall of Feasts in Minas Tirith, making polite conversation to an elf lord. Yet when he turned up in the dining room in Lady Lothíriel’s company, his friend looked distinctly put out.

To Éomer’s surprise the two boys had been whisked away to a bath and their own meal by the woman warrior waiting at the top of the stairs to the beach. This unlikely nursemaid had exchanged a nod with Lady Lothíriel and taken them in charge. Wisely neither of the boys had protested, though Tarcil had secured the promise of a bedtime story from his mother.

Éomer had already got to know Imrahil’s family at Cormallen, including the wives of Elphir and Erchirion, so it was all familiar faces that gathered in the dining room.

“I see you’ve met Lothíriel,” his host said, handing him a glass of wine.

Éomer took an appreciative sip, Imrahil’s wine cellar being legendary. “Yes,” he said, feeling more like himself again. “I wanted to have a closer look at the sea. She was down on the beach too, so I had the pleasure of making her acquaintance.”

Lady Lothíriel had gone to greet Amrothos and was speaking to him with some animation. She couldn’t be married to him though surely? Not once had his friend mentioned a wife, let alone a young son. But no, that peck on the cheek she bestowed on Amrothos, though affectionate enough, had nothing wifely about it.

Éomer realised that he was ogling her again and forced himself to look away. This had to stop. “She had two lively boys with her,” he remarked to Imrahil.

“Ah yes, my grandsons.” Imrahil smiled affectionately. “Scamps, both of them.”

Grandsons? So she was Amrothos’s wife after all. With sudden anger he remembered Amrothos flirting with every pretty woman that crossed his path at Cormallen. Was that why she had such a reserved manner?

Imrahil cleared his throat. “You’re probably wondering why we’ve never mentioned her before.”

Éomer tried hard to keep any trace of his anger out of his voice. “Not at all. It’s none of my business.”

His friend sighed. “The thing is, ever since her husband’s death, my daughter has been living a very quiet life with her aunt.”

Éomer choked on his wine. She was Imrahil’s daughter?

“My friend, are you all right?” Imrahil asked anxiously.

“I’m fine,” Éomer coughed. “Just something going down the wrong pipe.” It seemed to be a day of one shock after another. He really hoped this was the last one.

She was a widow. Of course, her grey clothes should have told him as much, dolt that he was. A sudden spark of joy ran through him, just as instantly followed by guilt. He should not rejoice at another man’s death, perhaps a brave swan knight, a brother in arms.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Did I ever meet her husband?” He had got to know many of Imrahil’s men on their march to the Black Gate.

A shadow passed across his friend’s face. “No. It’s a long story, better told another time. But I think dinner is ready.”

At the table, Éomer was seated to Imrahil’s right, in the place of honour. Even though it was only a family meal, the occasion had a formal air, with a host of servants attending and guests sorting themselves out according to precedence. All except Lady Lothíriel, who took the seat opposite him, on her father’s other side, reserved for the highest ranking lady.

Éomer shot a quick look at Elphir’s wife. He had found that Gondorians set ridiculously great store by that kind of thing, so much so that sitting in the wrong chair could be the start of a life-long feud. However, Lady Aerin ignored this usurpation of her rightful place and instead sat next to him with a polite smile.

Imrahil was a genial host and the food excellent, as always. Conversation flowed easily, with Lady Aerin detailing some of the planned entertainments, Imrahil holding forth on the current political situation and Elphir promising a visit to one of the Dol Amroth galleys currently in port. At this point Amrothos chimed in with trying to entice him to go sailing with him, but Éomer wasn’t quite sure if he wanted to take his friend up on this offer.

Lady Lothíriel, he noticed, kept her contributions to the bare polite minimum. She had a standoffish air, holding the world at arm’s length. It was as if she didn’t quite fit into the family circle, and they all knew, but refused to acknowledge it.

Her muted grey clothes set her apart from Erchirion’s wife in bright primrose and Lady Aerin in a fresh spring green that made her copper ringlets shine. And while the other ladies had adorned themselves with beautiful but very delicate jewellery, she just wore that single massive golden torc. Even their eating knives were different: hers sharp and utilitarian, those of the other two prettily jewelled.

But it wasn’t just that, Éomer thought, observing her surreptitiously. Unlike her sisters-in-law and even her father and brothers, she stayed aware of her surroundings always. A reflexive vigilance that made her glance up when a servant entered the room and tense imperceptibly when one passed behind her chair. He wasn’t even sure if she was conscious of it herself or just did it instinctively.

He remembered the way she had frozen upon first catching sight of him. That had not been surprise, he realised in retrospect, she had checked if he constituted a threat. Then it hit him: she did not feel safe, even though this was her home.

The sudden mad impulse to assure her that nothing bad would ever happen to her, that he would protect her always, rushed through him. Éomer looked down at his plate. What had got into him? He really needed to get a grip on himself. He didn’t even know the woman, had not exchanged more than a few polite words with her. For the rest of the meal he grimly concentrated on his food and on talking to his host.

After dinner, they moved into an adjoining room, as was the custom in Gondor. Lady Aerin sat down at a harp and began to play softly, while the others settled in comfortable chairs and chatted. Éomer had resolved to sit as far away as possible from Lady Lothíriel, but that turned out to be unnecessary, as she slipped out quietly, presumably to redeem her promise to her son of a bedtime story.

Imrahil followed her with his eyes. “Éomer, my friend,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to discuss something with you. Could I have a moment of your time?”

“Of course,” Éomer agreed.

“Let’s go to the library,” his friend suggested.

This was a cosy room overlooking the Bay of Belfalas, with bookshelves lining the walls floor to ceiling. Of course no open flames were allowed near the precious books, but a brazier warmed the air and lamps shed their mellow light. On one of the walls hung a row of family portraits, the former Princes of Dol Amroth all looking very serious and staid. A single picture was different, a view of the castle from afar, fresh and bold, drawn in light colours instead of the dark oils.

Imrahil settled down in an enormous worn leather chair and waved him to another, then waited while a servant set down a tray with more wine and retired, softly closing the door behind him. Éomer found that somehow all three of Imrahil’s sons had chosen to come along as well, Elphir taking another chair and Erchirion and Amrothos leaning against the wall. What was this all about?

Imrahil handed him a glass of wine. “It concerns Lothíriel,” he said abruptly.

Éomer tensed. Had they noticed him staring at her? “Yes?”

“I have a favour to ask.”

On his guard, Éomer did not rush into any promises. “What is it?” Was this the same favour Lady Lothíriel had mentioned earlier?

Imrahil studied his glass. “In order to explain, it will be necessary for me to go into some painful family history. Please bear with me.” He took a deep breath. “You asked about Lothíriel’s husband earlier on. He was the King of Harad.”

“What?” Éomer was glad he had not tried the wine yet, or he would have choked again. Surely he had misheard. “Did you say…?”

His face grim, Imrahil nodded. “Yes. The King of Harad.”

Éomer could only stare at him stupidly as the words sank in. It was one shock too many. “How?” he croaked.

“Denethor,” Amrothos spat.

His father sent him a frown. “Yes, it was the Steward’s doing, but we all have our share of the guilt.” He turned to Éomer again. “Nine years ago the Haradrim sent an ambassador to Gondor, offering a peace treaty in exchange for a high-born bride for their crown prince. Denethor agreed.”

Anger flashed through Éomer. “You forced her to marry one of those fiends?” He could not believe it.

Imrahil’s mouth twisted into a thin line. “We did no such thing. I tried to stop her, but Lothíriel was absolutely determined to go through with it.”

At his look of disbelief, Amrothos gave a bitter laugh. “You’ve never met our dear Steward. The man could have convinced you that jumping off the Tower of Ecthelion was for your own good.”

“It was all settled before I even knew of it.” Imrahil sighed. “Oh, not all the details, but the choice of bride. Lothíriel was afire with the idea of buying peace for her country.”

“You’re her father, you could have refused the match,” Éomer shot back.

Imrahil lowered his head. “Yes. But breaking our word would have meant immediate war with Harad. We could not afford that.”

And so he had sold his daughter into virtual slavery. Éomer felt sick. No wonder she was so wary after what had to be years of abuse. He yearned to kill somebody, with the Harad King his first choice, but Denethor close behind. Unfortunately they were both dead. He was too late – years too late.

Imrahil took up the story again. “Erchirion travelled with her to the City of Serpents and saw her married, and then she just disappeared. The Haradrim do not allow their royal ladies any outside contact. Only once did we receive a letter, informing us of the birth of Tarcil.” His voice cracked. “A single sign of life in six years and that a formal announcement from her husband.”

“So how did you rescue her?” It had to be hundreds of leagues to the City of Serpents, how had they ever managed that?

“We didn’t,” Amrothos answered.

“In the summer two years ago, we got a message that she was in Pelargir,” Imrahil explained with a frown. “Lothíriel was not very clear how she had escaped, and of course it’s understandable that she doesn’t want to talk about it. Her husband succeeded to the crown after the old king’s death, but he actually held it only very briefly, less than a year, before he was assassinated on the orders of his own brother.”

A fitting end for the brute. Éomer only regretted that this had robbed him of the opportunity to cut down the man on the Pelennor Fields himself.

“After her husband’s death, Lothíriel took her son and fled north, managing to somehow make it to safety by sheer luck. She had help from one of her husband’s retainers.” Imrahil hesitated. “A woman warrior actually. I have to admit she makes my men nervous, but what can I do, Lothíriel insists we owe her Tarcil’s life.”

Éomer gave a curt nod. “I’ve met her.” The woman would make anybody nervous.

“Soon after that the war started and we were called to Minas Tirith,” Imrahil continued. He sighed. “I did not have as much time to devote to my daughter as I wished. She’s found it difficult to settle back in here, to take up her old life.”

Éomer bit down on a sharp reply. The Haradrim had a reputation for cruelty. Her family could hardly expect her to simply forget years of having to endure that. But it was pointless saying so and would only add to his friend’s guilt.

“My aunt Ivriniel convinced her to go and live with her up the coast in Edhellond, for a bit,” Elphir put in. “It’s quieter there, and we thought female company would be good for her.”

“Did it work?”

“No,” Amrothos snapped. “Nothing works. She just won’t talk, won’t tell us what that fiend of a husband did to her.”

“Peace, Amrothos,” Imrahil intervened. “Lothíriel and him are twins, they used to be very close,” he explained to Éomer. “But her time amongst the Haradrim has changed her.” He made a helpless gesture. “At times I feel like I do not know her anymore. I understand that she will not talk disparagingly of her husband in front of Tarcil. After all it would be cruel to shatter the boy’s rather idealistic image of his father. But also when it’s just the two of us, she doesn’t open up. Why, at first she even used to defend the man.”

“And she refuses to take off that golden torc the man yoked her with,” Amrothos said.

Grim silence descended.

“What is the favour you want from me?” Éomer asked abruptly. Did they want Rohan’s assistance in a war against Harad? That he would give with pleasure. Let those beasts learn to fear the thunder of the cavalry of the Mark.

“We would like you to offer her your protection in Edoras for a while,” Imrahil answered.

“What? Why do you want that?”

“The whole situation is highly problematic,” Imrahil said. “You see, with his father’s death Tarcil has become the rightful King of Harad, and Lothíriel of course would be the Queen Dowager.”

Éomer lifted an eyebrow. “Surely those are empty titles?”

Elphir took a sip of his wine. “Not so empty. Technically my sister outranks every other lady in Gondor except for Queen Arwen. It’s rather awkward.”

Éomer wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. They worried about that kind of thing? “That’s why you want me to take her away?” He was tempted to carry her off that very moment.

Imrahil frowned at his eldest son. “Of course not. Anyway, Lothíriel has no wish to join the court at Minas Tirith. But the fact remains that when he comes of age, Tarcil will by right be the absolute ruler of Harad.”

Amrothos sighed. “She’s been worrying that the Haradrim might suddenly take an interest in him again.”

An interest presumably meaning an attempt to kidnap or get rid of the boy. “Does she have any grounds for worry?”

Imrahil shrugged. “We still occasionally trade with them, and there have been reports of a new ruler there. However, personally I feel that she’s overreacting. Not surprising, really, after the ordeal she’s been through.” He rubbed his eyes, suddenly looking old and tired. “I was hoping it might ease her mind to be in different surroundings, a place that holds no painful memories of happier times. Somewhere she can forget everything and become her old self again.”

It seemed a futile hope to Éomer. Some things, once broken, could not be made whole again, only mended as best as possible. But for friendship’s sake, he was willing to help in any way he could.

He opened his mouth to say as much when there came a knock on the door to the library.

A moment later Lady Lothíriel entered. Her cool grey eyes took them all in. Éomer wondered if he looked as guilty as the others at being caught discussing her.

“Deciding my future, Father?” she asked in a mild voice and swept across the room to the table to pour herself a glass of wine. _Again_ , hung in the air.

“Of course not, dearest,” Imrahil stuttered. “I was just setting out the situation.”

Her mouth tightened. “I see.”

Éomer belatedly remembered his manners and jumped up to offer her his chair. However, she shook her head.

“My lord,” she said, “as I mentioned earlier on, I meant to talk to you. But it seems my family has forestalled me.”

“Only to spare you painful explanations,” Imrahil interjected.

Éomer had never seen his friend so rattled before. At another time it might have been amusing, but he could fully sympathise. She really had the manner of a queen, holding herself straight as a drawn blade.

He cleared his throat, determined to prove that he could lead a rational conversation with her and not sound like a simpleton. “My lady, your father was saying that you wished to visit Rohan for a while?”

The look she turned upon him was a lot more friendly than that she had bestowed upon her family. “Yes, that is so, my lord king. You would oblige me very much if you extended your hospitality to Tarcil and me. But I assure you that otherwise you need not concern yourself with us at all, I just want to…” She hesitated. “…to get away from this coast and its traders.”

“You are worried about your boy?”

“Yes. Some people might call me fanciful.” She shot a look at her father and brothers. “But my aunt is no fool and she keeps her ears open. She says there have been questions asked in the harbour, both here and up the coast in Edhellond, where we live. That’s why I believe it would be best for us to disappear from sight for a while.”

Éomer made up his mind. “My lady, you’re welcome to stay in the Mark for as long as you wish.”

That earned him a warm smile. “You’re very kind. When would it be convenient for me to come?”

“Any time,” he answered reflexively. Why, for that smile he would have set out with her that very moment.

She blinked. “Oh. In that case, if you don’t mind, I will join you when you return to Rohan at the end of the week.”

He was surprised, but gave a polite bow. “If you wish so, of course.”

“So soon?” Imrahil asked, startled. “Dearest, I thought that perhaps Amrothos could take you there later in the year. Remember, it will still be chilly in the mountains and also you have to pack your things.”

“I can extend my stay here a few days if you need more time to get ready,” Éomer offered.

“Not at all,” she answered. “And in fact I would appreciate your and your men’s company on the journey.” She looked towards Amrothos and they seemed to understand each other without any words exchanged.

Her brother inclined his head. “I’ll sail you to Edhellond on the morning tide.”

“Good.” She nodded decisively and turned to her father. “May I leave Tarcil here while I go and collect our things? You’ll keep an eye on him?”

“Of course, dearest, but–”

“That’s settled then.” She swept Éomer a deep curtsy. “Thank you very much, my lord king. I assure you, we will be no burden to you. All I want is to live quietly; we will not disturb you in the least.”

He wasn’t so sure about the last, she had disturbed him plenty already. But he gave another bow. “You could never be a burden, my lady.”

Another dazzling smile, this time even spilling over onto her family, and she left. Éomer slowly released his breath, feeling a bit stunned. He sincerely hoped that the effect she had on him would fade with time and exposure.

Silence descended, only broken by a soft crackle from the brazier.

Erchirion, who had said nothing all this time and just stood leaning against a bookcase, looking indifferent and aloof, suddenly smashed his fist against the wall. They all jumped.

“Six years,” he ground out. “Six years she bought us. Three more than Denethor had reckoned on.”


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Lady Lothíriel proved true to her word. On the day set for their departure, she awaited them in the courtyard at dawn, all ready and with a yawning Tarcil sitting before her on her horse. Éomer was surprised to see that her tent and all her belongings fitted on only two pack horses. She brought no servants along either, except for the Haradric woman warrior, who stood by her own horse, watching their preparations closely.

They had another addition to their party however, a grumpy Amrothos. He had been ordered by Imrahil to escort his sister to Rohan, though neither of the siblings thought this necessary.

Éomer had seen nothing more of the princess during his time in Dol Amroth and was glad to find, when exchanging a few polite words with her, that he could do so perfectly easily. The unsettling influence she’d had on him seemed to have worn off. But even so he decided to keep his distance.

Though he had enjoyed his stay with Imrahil, he was looking forward to going home again, for he had been away for nearly two months, first visiting Aragorn in Minas Tirith, then Éowyn and Faramir in Emyn Arnen. On the way back home they would pass under the mountains, the quickest route now that the dead had been laid to rest by Aragorn. His couriers already used it regularly, and he had plans to improve the road and promote it as a trade route.

Lady Lothíriel was saying her good-byes to her family, who had come to see them off. Imrahil wore a pinched look of worry, though he valiantly tried to suppress it, while Elphir was grave and Erchirion impassive as always.

Éomer clasped his friend’s arm. “She’ll be fine. I’ll look after her.”

Imrahil forced a smile. “My thanks.”

Amongst many good wishes they rode out the castle gate, the jingle of their tack and clop of the horses’ hooves echoing back from the stone. Winter had made a return, and fog enveloped them like a grey, damp blanket as they made their way across the salt marshes bordering the coast.

Dol Amroth was situated on a peninsula, so at first they followed the shore of the Bay of Cobas Haven in a semicircle towards the north. Lady Lothíriel had wrapped a big, shapeless cloak around herself and Tarcil, drawing up the hood. They passed a few fishing villages where Amrothos was greeted by name, but Éomer doubted that anybody recognised her.

Towards noon, the wind suddenly picked up, blowing away the mist in large swathes like torn banners, and a weak sun broke through. They were going at an easy trot, but he noticed her slowing her horse and turning in the saddle to look across the bay. Following her eyes, he saw far behind them the castle of Dol Amroth emerging on its rocky outcrop as if floating above the waves. It was a brave sight. Éomer had the feeling he had seen it before somewhere – of course, the picture in Imrahil’s library. Lady Lothíriel looked at it for a long moment, but then resolutely turned away and urged her horse forward to catch up with her brother.

After that the road turned inland along the foot of the hills of Tarnost. The trees clothing them, mostly beech and chestnut, were still bare, but at their feet snowdrops and wood anemones were putting forth fresh green leaves. When they stopped for their midday meal in a sheltered spot, it was warm enough to dispense with their cloaks and sit on the ground.

Imrahil’s kitchen had provided them generously with fresh bread, cheese and meats, enough to last them to the next major town, so they ate well. Éomer also welcomed the opportunity to stretch his legs. Catching sight of Lady Lothíriel dismounting, he frowned. She was an excellent rider, obviously schooled from childhood and sensibly dressed in leggings and a riding skirt split down the middle, but she moved stiffly, as if she ached. Holding on to the boy the whole time had to be a bit of a strain too.

Tarcil scampered off to explore the banks of a small stream, closely supervised by the watchful woman warrior, Khuri. His mother strolled after them more slowly and leant against a tree to watch them and have her meal. When Éomer joined her, she looked up in surprise, but gave a polite smile. She had thrown back the hood of her cloak, and the torc at her throat gleamed golden in the sunshine.

“How are you doing?” Éomer asked. “Are we going too fast? Please do not hesitate to tell me if you need more breaks.”

“You are kind, my lord,” she answered. “I used to ride a lot, but I admit I’m a bit out of practice. My aunt is elderly and does not enjoy horses, so since moving to Edhellond I’ve led rather a restricted life. But do not worry, I’m sure I’ll manage. After all it’s not a very long journey.”

Éomer could not help feeling uneasy at her words. Did she realise what she had let herself in for? “It is quite a way, I’m afraid,” he said. “But perhaps we can stop over for a break somewhere for a couple of days, for you to recover.” His heart sank at the thought of more delay though.

Lady Lothíriel frowned. “But I thought it only takes a week or so to get to Rohan? Surely it can’t be much more than that?”

Éomer blinked in surprise. She considered that a short journey? Suddenly he realised that she had travelled much farther than him. How long did it take to reach the City of Serpents? Hard travelling as well, he would have thought.

“A week will see us to the entrance of the Paths of the Dead,” he answered. “And from there it’s only one more day to Edoras.”

“Ah, that’s fine then.” Amrothos had come up on her other side, and she smiled her thanks at him when he handed her a wineskin.

A shriek of laughter made them look towards the creek, where Tarcil was launching a boat made from a piece of bark. Khuri only just saved him from falling in the water.

Reminded of exploring the hills behind Aldburg as a boy, Éomer chuckled. “Éothain and I used to do the same. In our imagination every stream turned into the mighty Anduin and every cave had a dragon dwelling in it.”

Lady Lothíriel’s smile grew warmer, as if she considered him for himself for the first time, instead of just being polite to a friend of her father’s. She had beautiful grey eyes, he noticed. “With us it was pretending to be pirates from Umbar.”

Amrothos grinned reminiscently. “Remember that time we sank Elphir’s boat? He was absolutely furious, since he was supposed to be Thorongil raiding Umbar.”

The princess’s smile faded. “Strange to think that a few years later I’d actually see the place in person.”

An awkward silence fell.

“How old is Tarcil?” Éomer broke it, searching for something to say.

“Six years old.”

“He’ll need a pony of his own then, once we’re in Edoras,” Éomer said. “I’ll get him one.”

“Indeed, my lord, you don’t need to put yourself to any trouble,” Lady Lothíriel protested.

“You’re my guest,” he pointed out. “Besides, it’s no trouble. I’m a king of horse lords; the royal stables hold a large selection of mounts.” He considered her own horse, which was being watered by his squire Beortulf. A bit elderly, placid and reliable, it was a good choice for a long journey, but lacked fire. She deserved better really. “I could also sort you out with a new horse,” he mused. “Something a bit more lively and fun.”

She followed his glance. “I borrowed Mellon from my aunt, but I intend to send him back with Amrothos.”

Her brother groaned. “Really, Lothíriel, why didn’t you get a proper horse from Father, one you could keep?”

“I didn’t think I’d need one.”

“In that case feel free to use a horse from the royal stables,” Éomer put in. “I’m sure you’ll find one to suit you.”

“You’re very kind, King Éomer, but that won’t be necessary,” Lady Lothíriel replied. He got the feeling she did not want to be beholden to him more than necessary. “If needed, I suppose I could buy one. You see, I lost my favourite horse a couple of years ago and have been reluctant to replace her.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Éomer exclaimed. He had felt the same when losing Swiftleg, his first warhorse, but as a warrior had needed a replacement at once. “Was it an accident?” he asked impulsively. “That’s always hard.”

“I had to sell her.”

“Sell her?”

She must have heard the astonishment in his voice. “I took her along to Harad and kept her on my husband’s summer estates, because that was the only place where I could ride her,” she explained, then hesitated. “When we had to flee, Celebrin got us across the River Harnen – we had to swim – but she was too fine, too eye-catching a horse, and we still had to cross the whole of Harondor to reach safety.” Lady Lothíriel looked away. “So I told Khuri to sell her.”

“I’m sorry,” Éomer said quietly, and he meant not just for the pain of having to sell her beloved horse. If only he could make it all undone. She’d had to flee Harad and swim a river? What else had she gone through?

“They’re good to horses in Harad,” she replied. “Hopefully Celebrin found a kind master.” It sounded like something she had been telling herself repeatedly.

“I’m sure she has,” he replied, hoping the Haradrim treated their horses better than they treated their women.

Lady Lothíriel sighed, as if she could read his thoughts. “I had no choice. To keep Tarcil safe I would have done anything… even sold myself if necessary.”

Amrothos choked on a gulp from his wineskin. “Lothíriel!” he spluttered. Éomer was glad he hadn’t been drinking anything or he would likely have done the same.

“Don’t worry, Brother. It didn’t come to that.”

“You shouldn’t say things like that. What will the King of Rohan think of you? And Father would throw a fit if he heard you.”

She shrugged. Éomer got the distinct impression she didn’t care a fig what he thought of her. “But he won’t hear, will he. Anyway, I’m a dowager now, like Ivriniel. I can speak my mind.”

“Our aunt is over seventy. You make yourself sound as if you’re in your dotage,” Amrothos said, disgusted. “What is next, wearing a knitted cap, like she does?”

“Do you think it would suit me?”

“Really, Lothíriel, sometimes there’s no talking to you.” Amrothos stomped away.

Éomer said nothing, knowing better than to interfere in a siblings’ spat.

The princess sighed and apparently felt that some explanation was called for. “He was born a few minutes before me, so he thinks of me as his little sister and feels responsible for me.” Her mouth twisted into a sardonic smile. “And it seems he’s getting staid and respectable in his old age.”

“Amrothos, respectable?” Éomer blurted out, thinking of his friend’s behaviour in Cormallen. “Isn’t that about as likely as a nazgûl taking up flower arranging?”

That surprised a loud, gurgling laughter out of her. It was a lovely sound.

They grinned at each other. “I think he’s annoyed that I outrank him now,” she confided. “And that he can no longer order me about.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed they take titles seriously here in Gondor.”

She nodded. “Titles hold power.” Suddenly she sounded bitter. “Even if they’re completely empty.”

“Is that what you want, power?” he asked, curious.

“Oh no, I’ve seen what the weight of it does to people. Not that I ever had any, mind you.” She frowned, thinking. “Except a little over my household, I suppose. Some of the other women enjoyed that, having the mastery over the lives and deaths of their slaves, those poor wretches. It only made me feel even more powerless.”

She needed to have had considerable influence, he thought suddenly, to buy Gondor all that time. Even if she didn’t realise her own strength. “So what is it you want?” he asked gently.

“Other people not having power over me,” she answered at once. “That’s why my title is so useful. Even Father hesitates to tell a queen dowager what to do.” All at once she stopped and frowned. “You’re easy to talk to.” He wasn’t sure she considered it a good trait. Straightening her shoulders, she took a step away from him. “Shouldn’t we get going again, my lord? I’ll fetch Tarcil.”

He agreed and gave the command to get ready to set out. Yet when she had mounted her horse and held out her arms for Khuri to lift Tarcil up to her, he led his horse over.

“Would you like to ride on Firefoot with me for a while?” he asked the boy. “The last person to do so was the dwarf Gimli, Glóin’s son, one of the Fellowship.”

Tarcil’s eyes lit up. “Really? You’ve met a real dwarf?”

“I’ll tell you all about it,” Éomer promised and tossed him up into the saddle. “Also how he threatened to cut off my head and his companion Legolas wanted to shoot me on our very first meeting. They’re some of my best friends now.”

A snort came from Lady Lothíriel’s direction. “Men,” he heard her mutter to Khuri.

Tarcil however saw nothing strange in his declaration. So while they continued their journey, Éomer told the boy about meeting three strangers on the plains of the Riddermark, the battle of Helm’s Deep and the ride of the Rohirrim.

Not much about the Fields of the Pelennor though, the boy would hardly enjoy hearing about the slaughter of his father’s people. It was a bard’s tale he told anyway, almost that of a stranger. The heartbreak and pain he left out: Háma’s body hacked to pieces by the Uruk-hai, Théodred falling at the Fords of the Isen, finding Éowyn lying cold and lifeless on the Pelennor, so many friends slain.

The boy had a quick intelligence and unslakeable thirst for tales of great doings, wanting to know all the details about the layout of the Hornburg, what Ents looked like and how they had hunted the Uruk-hai to the edge of Fangorn Forest and surrounded them there. But while Tarcil peppered him with questions, his mother rode at their side silent, just casting him a glance every now and again. She probably heard his omissions as if he had shouted them out. Those who had experienced pain recognised it in others.

“When I grow up, I will be a great warrior, too” Tarcil suddenly announced. “Like grandfather and you.”

Lady Lothíriel’s hands clenched on her reins, but she gave no other sign of her thoughts.

“There are many different ways to serve your country,” Éomer told the boy, then suddenly remembered how she had served hers. “Eh…” he hurried on, “for example you could captain a warship or breed horses.”

Tarcil wrinkled his nose, clearly not finding these alternatives particularly exciting. “But you fight,” he pointed out.

“It was that or die,” Éomer answered. “I’m hoping that you however will have a choice. Becoming a warrior is an honourable path, but if you decide to tread it, you must know why.”

“To be the best fighter?” Tarcil said, stating what was the obvious reason to him.

Éomer inclined his head. “That’s what I used to think. I loved the idea of doing deeds of great valour, craved the excitement of measuring myself against others.” And sometimes still did, he admitted to himself. There was nothing so heady as knowing your life depended on the next strike of your blade. “But nowadays I take up arms to defend what I love. It’s the better reason. And it makes you more dangerous.”

“Why dangerous?” Tarcil asked.

“Because you care. I’ve seen lads in their teens take down Uruks twice their size, simply because they were fighting for their family. Never underestimate a desperate opponent.”

The boy looked thoughtful. “I would fight to defend my mother,” he said.

“So would I,” Éomer said, then quickly amended his words. “And all women who are under my care.”

Tarcil threw a dubious glance at Khuri, who rode like a silent shadow at Lady Lothíriel’s side, looking as much in need of protection as a hawk with sharp talons. He opened his mouth to ask another question.

“Tarcil,” his mother interrupted gently but firmly. “That’s enough. You must not impose on the King of Rohan’s time any longer. Ride with me again.”

Éomer protested politely, but in truth he was not altogether loath to pass the boy back. His throat was dry from talking; he had never before realised how much work it was to look after a child. Giving Lady Lothíriel a courteous nod, he rode forward to consult with Éothain, hearing her starting to tell her son a story of Elves.

All that afternoon they cut across fertile meadows towards the River Ringló. The people of these lands lived in scattered villages, looking to the Prince of Dol Amroth for protection, and kept cattle and sheep. And as the haze cleared towards evening, far away on the horizon a line of white peaks floated in the darkening sky. Éomer felt his heart lift.

“ _Tha Hwitan Beorgas_ ,” the men sighed with satisfaction. The White Mountains.

With the sun setting, they started to look for a place to camp. He had considered stopping near one of the villages, so the princess could sleep under a roof. But since the weather looked to remain dry and the wind had dropped, he thought that she would be more comfortable in a tent than staying in a small, smoke-filled house.

Finally they settled on a clearing sheltered by a copse of trees and near a small stream. By now his men had lots of practice in setting up camp; some lit fires, others sorted out tents, the rest watered and picketed the horses. Éomer and Éothain meanwhile arranged the disposition of guards. They might be in friendly territory, but Éomer did not intend to run any risks, not while escorting Lady Lothíriel and her son.

To his surprise they were not the only ones to make a round of the camp. Khuri, the Haradric woman warrior, inspected the set-up personally, checking that there were no gaps between guard posts. She moved with a silent, intense efficiency that put the men on edge – but also made them more alert, Éomer mused.

By the time they had arranged everything to their satisfaction, the mouthwatering smell of meat stew was drifting across the camp. Also a few of his men had brought down game birds and were roasting them over the fire. Éomer sought his tent, which stood in the centre of the clearing, a simple structure of green canvas, quick to erect and just of a size to hold a cot and a light, collapsible table for his maps and papers.

But where was Lady Lothíriel’s tent? He had given orders for it to be set up in a place of safety next to his. To his horrified surprise he spotted her sitting cross-legged at the entrance of a tiny shelter hardly big enough for her and Tarcil to squeeze into.

“You can’t sleep in that,” he exclaimed.

Startled, she looked up at him. “What? Why not?”

“My lady, it’s not suitable to your station.”

Amrothos came over from a nearby campfire. “That’s what I said too. And mine is even smaller.” He sounded annoyed.

“You could have organised your own,” his sister pointed out, unmoved. She smiled at Éomer. “Please do not worry, my lord. I’ve had much worse accommodation. Why, for several weeks I slept by the side of the road or in ditches, so by comparison a tent is a real luxury.”

“You did what?” He had the feeling his eyes popped.

“Really, it sounds worse than it was,” she answered in a soothing voice. “We were lucky and had mostly dry weather.”

What was wrong with Imrahil, hadn’t he taken proper care of his daughter at all? Éomer’s indignation got the better of him. “Are you telling me they dragged you down to Harad and didn’t even look after you properly?”

“It was on the way back,” she answered dryly.

“Oh.” He came to a decision. “Well, I won’t have you sleeping in that. You may have my tent and I’ll share with Éothain.”

“Certainly not,” she protested.

“If my sister doesn’t want it, I’ll take it,” Amrothos put in, only to get glared at by both of them.

“Lady Lothíriel,” Éomer said, “I can’t possibly have a guest of mine staying in such a thing.” He gestured at her tent.

“My lord king, you’re very kind, but there is no way I will impose on you in such a manner.” Suddenly there was a hint of steel in her voice. Amrothos seemed to recognise the note of finality, for he shrugged and turned away.

Éomer locked eyes with the princess. She met him like a blade unsheathed: adamant and unyielding. Pressing her would not move her at all.

Clearly it was time for a change of tactics.

“But you’d do me a favour,” he said. “Please, my lady, just think what my men will think of me else.”

“Nonsense,” she answered, but sounded flustered by this unexpected angle of attack.

“Me in a soft bed and you on the hard ground? I’d never live it down and lose all their respect.”

“Now you’re being absurd.”

“I’ll be forever known as Éomer the feeble,” he said in a plaintive voice. “And it will all be your fault. From the Misty Mountains to the Sea of Rhûn, orcs will laugh at me.”

The corners of her mouth twitched.

“I’ll go down in the annals of the Mark as Éomer the effete, Éomer the faint-hearted, Éomer the lily-livered…”

“Enough,” she laughed and threw up her hands.

“Please, my lady? I grovel at your feet.”

“Oh, very well,” the princess capitulated. “I suppose Amrothos can then have my tent,” she added maliciously.

“Thank you.” He swept her a bow and grinned at her. “I’ll be forever in your debt for saving my reputation. You have no idea how happy you’ve made me.”

She rose to her feet and put her hands on her hips, regarding him thoughtfully. “Tell me, King Éomer, do you always get what you want?”

“Usually,” he answered.

***

The next few days passed in much the same manner. They continued to make for the River Ringló, and once they had crossed it, followed the Ciril up to Calembel, where they hit the road to Erech. In Calembel Éomer would have been welcome to stay with Angbor, Lord of Lamedon, for he had made the man’s acquaintance during the Ring War. However, Lady Lothíriel did not wish to make herself known, so they just passed through. He would not have felt easy to leave her alone at the camp, not when charged with her protection.

As they approached the mountains the country became more hilly, until the wooded slopes and wide, grassy valleys reminded him of the Folde, where he had spent his childhood. And while it grew chilly at night, the weather stayed dry, so they spent the evenings sitting around the campfire and talking or telling stories. It was relaxing not to have to worry about the business of ruling, and Éomer found he enjoyed himself. Almost he could have wished that the journey would take longer.

Lady Lothíriel had become friendly with many of his riders, especially those who had children of their own like Éothain. After the first day they took turns to have Tarcil ride with them and tell him stories. The boy had a quick mind and was eager to learn Rohirric, and it pleased his men to teach him children’s verses and the songs of their homeland.

While it was known that Lady Lothíriel was the daughter of Imrahil, he had not given more details than necessary about the reason why she was coming to stay in the Mark, but he suspected that his men had picked up plenty of gossip in Dol Amroth. Yet whatever the rumours, he made sure everybody treated her with the respect she deserved and did not pry into her private affairs.

In the late afternoon of their sixth day of travelling, they passed Tarlang’s Neck, a gap in a row of hills striking south from the White Mountains. The Blackroot Valley opened up before them, with the hill of Erech brooding in the distance. Éomer was talking to Éothain and Amrothos, idly discussing the merit of the ale at their favourite taverns in Dol Amroth and Edoras respectively, while Lady Lothíriel was riding somewhere to the front of them, as always shadowed by the silent Khuri.

Suddenly out of the corner of his eye he saw the woman tense. Looking up, he found that one of his younger riders had sidled up to Lady Lothíriel close enough for their legs to touch. Unferth had the reputation of being popular with the ladies, though Éomer had never understood what they saw in him, apart from his good looks and dashing manner. The man fought well enough, but would never have the brains to lead an éored.

Urging his horse forward, Éomer saw that Khuri too was closing the distance, intent on cutting the poor fool off. However, that moment Lady Lothíriel without turning round lifted her fingers very slightly, making Khuri back down again. Reluctantly so did Éomer, at least for the moment. Surely Lady Lothíriel could not enjoy that young cockerel’s attention?

He caught a few words of the man’s speech, something about her hair glinting like a raven’s wing and being far too youthful to be a mother. His annoyance grew. Unferth might mistake her natural friendliness for an invitation to make a pass at her. If the man distressed her in any way, he would pay.

Lady Lothíriel meanwhile did not reply at all, she just put her head to one side, as if considering the value of Unferth’s sentiments. Under her cool regard slowly the young rider’s voice petered out into a series of incoherent phrases.

“These are fine words,” she finally said. “And I’m sure many a maiden in Rohan would appreciate them, Unferth. However, I do not play that game anymore.” Her voice was gentle, but it cut through the rider’s cockiness like a honed blade. There was no softness in it, just an iron determination that there was no standing against.

It was almost laughable to see the man’s confidence shrivel. He stuttered an apology and spurred his horse forward, looking like a whipped dog with his tail between his legs. Éomer actually felt sorry for him, though he deserved what he had got.

But when a little later they set up camp in a meadow overlooking the valley, and she strolled off with Tarcil to have a look at the view, he sought her out once he had settled the guard rotation.

He found her sitting in the grass, Tarcil asleep in her lap, with Khuri standing a little apart, keeping watch over them. Éomer sat down next to her, by habit choosing a position where he could keep an eye on the Haradrim woman at the same time. It never paid to disregard a threat.

The princess gave him a distracted smile. “Just look at the colours,” she said. “I wish I could capture them somehow.”

Éomer followed her glance over the valley. Twilight filled it like a clear liquid, turning the woods and pastures to shadows of deep blue and green, while high above them the peaks of the mountains still caught the light of the setting sun, the snow gleaming like gold.

“It’s a beautiful country,” he acknowledged. “Reminds me of the Riddermark.”

“Then I’m looking forward to seeing it.”

A sudden longing for home swept through Éomer. He had been away too long. “It won’t be much longer now. Tomorrow we’ll reach the entrance to the Paths of the Dead and the next day we’ll tackle the passage.” He nodded at the sleeping boy. “Do you want me to carry him back for you?”

However, she declined. “I like holding him,” she said with a smile. “But thank you, my lord.”

“Tell me if you need any assistance…also if anybody should bother you in any way.”

Her eyebrows climbed up. “Oh, you heard me talking to poor Unferth. But really, he’s quite harmless.”

“Even so, next time just let me know and I’ll deal with it.” He would enjoy it too.

However, his words seemed to amuse Lady Lothíriel. She chuckled. “I’m not completely helpless, you know. I just tried to let the lad down gently.”

“Gently?” That had been as crushing a set-down as any he had ever witnessed.

“Well, it’s better than being turned into _Shashrani_ by Khuri. She would have made short work of him.”

“Into what?”

The mirth faded from her face. For a moment her eyes looked into nothing. “Oh, it’s a kind of beef skewer popular in Harad. You cut the meat up small, pound it and then grill it.”

It sounded painful. He looked up to find Khuri regarding him impassively. Perhaps the princess did not need his assistance after all to deal with tiresome admirers.

“Anyway,” Lady Lothíriel added. “Unferth is so young, I didn’t want to be cruel.”

“Young?” Éomer asked back. “As Amrothos would say, you make yourself sound like an old matron. Surely Unferth is about the same age as you.”

“Perhaps. But Unferth still thinks the world lies at his feet, that it cares what happens to him. I know better.” Her voice sank as if she was speaking to herself. “I might be young in years, but I’m old in experience.”

Éomer was silenced. Rage filled him. If only he could call Denethor back to life and then slice him into small pieces. And afterwards do the same thing all over again.

After a moment the princess sighed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t complain really, not when so many people paid with their lives during the war. Compared to them, I’ve been lucky. And I know that you too have lost those dear to you.”

“Nobody has come through the war unscathed,” he agreed. He ached to ease her pain, but found nothing else to say.

“True.” She stroked Tarcil’s hair. “At least I have a wonderful son. And my independence, that’s worth something.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well, that useful dowager title. I never thought that there were advantages to being a widow, but I’m my own mistress now. It’s probably difficult to understand for you – I’m sure nobody dares to tell _you_ what to do – but it makes a difference to me.”

He could readily believe that anything was better than being wedded to the King of Harad, but she did not intend to stay a widow forever, did she?

“Surely you will get married again one day?” he exclaimed. “You’re so young.” Lady Lothíriel lifted an eyebrow and he recalled what she had just said about being old in experience. “I mean,” he stuttered, “don’t all women wish for marriage?”

It had certainly been the impression he had got during his stay in Minas Tirith. Even in the Mark the siege of its unmarried king had been intensifying lately.

“I suppose young maidens who do not have any children yet might wish for it,” she answered with a shrug. “But why should I give my freedom away again? Indeed, why should any woman marry when she doesn’t need to?”

Éomer opened his mouth, but nothing came out. The princess looked out over the view again. With the sun’s fire quenched, the mountain tops high above the valley were fading into twilight.

“To have a home?” she answered her own question. “But I can stay with my aunt. And later I might buy a small property near Edhellond to retire to.” He made a strangled sound, but she disregarded him anyway. “For protection from other men?” she added. “But luckily my family provides that.”

The thought of all that loveliness and spirit shut away, slowly withering into old age, closed like a fist around his heart. She should be laughing, dancing, enjoying life. And suddenly he realised that he did not wish her to do so with just any man.

Betrayed by her liege, failed by her family, brutalised by her husband, all of whom should have protected her, she had come out the other side not untouched – but unbent, like a fine blade forged in fire. She was magnificent and beautiful, and he wanted her for his own.

And if he spoke one word of love to her, she would probably call Khuri over and have him skewered. Or do it herself.

He cleared his throat. “To spend her life with a man of her choosing?” he offered his own answer to her question.

“Perhaps.” She brooded for a moment. “But even then it would be like a bird flying back into its cage. I for one won’t make that mistake again.”

Éomer smiled feebly, his mind in an uproar. Since becoming king, he’d had so many young women throw themselves in his way, yet this one obviously cared nothing for his crown. A sinking feeling told him he might have fallen for the only Gondorian lady who had no interest in him at all.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Having made good time, the next day they stopped early to set up camp where the path to the passage under the mountains branched off from the main road. A bridge spanned the Blackroot River, here no more than a fast running stream, and beyond it the road began to rise in a series of sharp bends. It led up to the ravine that led to the Paths of the Dead, which was so narrow, it looked as if a giant had hewn the mountain with a sword.

By now every man knew his tasks, and the tents went up quickly on a wide field by the side of the road. The women disappeared for a wash, dragging a less than enthusiastic Tarcil along, and with Amrothos as a discreet guard, as usual. Éomer and his men also took the opportunity for a dip in the stream, but kept it brief, as the water was fresh from the mountains and icy. He had a suspicion he needed it though, unlike Lothíriel who managed to look neat and poised even when covered in dust.

Earlier on they had bought a freshly slaughtered pig from a farmer, along with some ale, and now the smell of roasting pork began to waft through the air. A cheerful feeling filled the camp: the men were looking forward to a good meal and even more to returning home the next day. Éothain had a decidedly anticipatory gleam in his eyes.

And himself? He missed the Mark, but Meduseld didn’t really feel like home yet, not after living in Aldburg as Third Marshal for all those years. During the winter he had not spent a lot of time in Edoras either, being too busy travelling around Rohan to get an idea of the damage inflicted by Saruman. And since Éowyn had left to get married in the autumn, Meduseld had seemed even more lonely.

After a habitual round of the camp, noting with approval that Unferth had been assigned latrine digging duty, he went to observe Éothain giving Tarcil a riding lesson. The boy loved horses and showed considerable aptitude. After a few months in the Mark he would probably be as much at home on horseback as a Rohirric child.

Amrothos and Khuri were watching too, but suddenly he noticed Lothíriel was absent. “Where is your sister?” he asked Amrothos.

His friend motioned vaguely in the direction of the mountain behind them. “Up there somewhere.”

Squinting his eyes, Éomer searched the hillside with some alarm. However, he soon spotted her sitting on a ledge overlooking the camp, up several turns of the road, which wound its way to and fro across the slope. Was that quite safe? It looked rather precarious. He decided he had better make sure.

Leaving the others to their devices, he walked up the steep path. As he got closer, he saw that she had a kind of collapsible desk on her lap and was writing in a small book.

However, when he approached she put down her quill, closed the book and leant back against the rock behind her.

“Enjoying the view?” he asked.

“Yes, it’s like that of a bird.”

Turning round, he had to agree. As far as the eye could see, the mountains marched west, while the green valley spread at their feet, watered by little rills that would eventually form the Blackroot River and empty into the Bay of Belfalas.

“The way the meadows rise towards the mountains reminds me of the sea running up against a shore,” Lothíriel mused. “Like a wave at its highest point, just before it recedes.”

Éomer nodded. It was an apt description. “May I sit with you for a moment?” he asked. “I won’t disturb you.” He got out a couple of apples, wrinkled at the end of winter but still sound, which he had pilfered from the kitchen tent. “Look, I’ve even brought gifts to ingratiate myself.”

She laughed and accepted them. “Do join me. But I’m afraid I can offer you nothing but a seat on the hard ground in return.”

With a sigh of contentment he stretched out on the turf beside her. “And the view,” he reminded her. Which was very nice, he thought, observing her through half-closed lids. Still a little damp, her hair fell loose down her back, giving her a delightfully dishevelled look.

“You can’t see it properly,” she protested.

He gave a vague wave of the hand. “I’ll imagine it.”

Sheltered from the wind and with the late afternoon sun warming the rock behind them, their ledge was a pleasant place to be. After a moment Lothíriel took up her quill again, dipped it in the inkwell built into a compartment at the top of her desk and continued writing.

Éomer felt himself relax. He could get used to this: lying in the grass, sunshine on his face, his lady by his side. “Is that a letter to your family?” he asked. “If you wish, I can send a courier south with it.”

“That would not make me very popular with your men, they are looking forward to returning home.”

He shrugged. “I’ll call for volunteers. As Amrothos always claims, Dol Amroth has the prettiest women of Gondor.” And the most difficult to woo, he feared.

Lothíriel chuckled. “My brother would know, he’s made a study of it. But it won’t be necessary, I’m not writing a letter, just working on some small drawings. Scribblings, Amrothos calls them, but it keeps me amused.”

“You draw?” Éomer sat up, intrigued. “May I have a look?”

“No.” For an instant the steel was back. Yet at once she added a more diplomatic refusal. “It would not interest you, my lord.”

It would have, but he had no intention of pushing his luck. “A shame.” He lay back down again. Suddenly he remembered the painting hanging in Imrahil’s library. “The picture of the castle of Dol Amroth in your father’s library, did you draw that?”

Surprised, she looked up. “You noticed? Yes, that’s mine.”

“I liked it.”

She concentrated on her work again. “Of course it’s not a proper oil painting, just a coloured sketch, but I love the view from that point along the beach.”

He thought back to it. “It seemed to me you somehow caught the…well…the way the castle stands there bravely and alone. I don’t know, kind of saying it’s ready to defend its people, but not certain of victory…” His voice petered out. “I’m not expressing myself very clearly.”

She was resting her chin on her hand, considering him. “No, you are.” Suddenly she smiled. “Thank you.”

Not quite sure how his clumsy words had earned her approval, he was nevertheless quite willing to bask in it. Crossing his arms behind his head, he smiled back at her.

Lothíriel dipped her pen in the ink and continued her drawing, casting a quick look out over the view every now and again. She was more relaxed than she had been in Dol Amroth, he thought, not as tightly strung. It was too much to hope that it was his presence that made her feel at ease, but it pleased him nonetheless. She should not have to worry about her and her son’s safety.

After a while she put down the quill, set the desk aside and stretched her arms. Reaching over, she picked up one of the apples Éomer had brought with him and took a bite. “Tell me,” she said, “have you been through the Paths of the Dead before? I’m not in the least worried myself, of course,” she added quickly, “but Tarcil asked me.”

He suppressed a grin at this little bit of bravado. If anything the boy was probably the one member of their party looking forward to the passage under the mountains the most, as it would give him something to boast about to his friend Alphros.

“Once I would not have taken them, even if all the hosts of Mordor stood before me,” he said. “But the dead are gone. I couldn’t very well ask my men to ride that way without first making sure that it was safe, so a few months ago I crossed through and back again.”

“All alone?” she asked, surprised.

“Éothain insisted on coming along, and in the end my entire personal guard did as well.” It had been quite an argument in fact.

“That was brave.”

This was more praise than he deserved. “Not really, Aragorn had said it was safe.”

“You trust him so much?”

“We’re brothers,” he said simply.

She nibbled her apple. “It seems to me the land still remembers the dead, but it feels sad rather than menacing.”

“Yes, and now couriers use the passage to reach your father all the time.” He turned onto his side and propped his head on his hand. “In winter it’s safer than the passes across the mountains. They might look peaceful, but the weather up there can change from a balmy spring day to a blizzard in a blink.” He grimaced. “Mind you, I’m not sure the passage will ever be very popular. Many people are still afraid of the dead.”

She turned to look out over the view. “You’re not?”

He thought of the many men and orcs he had killed, most of them faceless – but he preferred it that way. And then he thought of his other dead: father, mother, Théoden, Théodred, so many friends.

“Why should I fear them?” he asked roughly. “I have more family amongst the dead than the living.”

At his harsh tone her head slewed round. Startled, she stared at him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That wasn’t a very good joke.” He had not meant to be so blunt, to bare his soul in this way.

And he did not think she was fooled by his words. Her eyes searched his face. “You said that Lord Aragorn was your brother,” she offered hesitantly. “So you do have more family.”

Éomer had not thought of that before. “You’re right.”

And there was Faramir as well, whom he had got to know and like on his visit to Emyn Arnen, another brother in the making. And perhaps, who knew, one day a family of his own? He smiled crookedly. But first he would have to persuade the lady of his choosing not to renounce all men.

That moment a squeal of triumph wafted up to them from below. When they looked down, they saw that Tarcil had progressed to hitting targets with a wooden sword carved for him by one of the men.

“That boy has unlimited energy,” he remarked to Lothíriel. “It takes half an éored just to keep him busy.”

She chuckled. “I know. And he’s all excited about going under the mountain. It’s best if he rides with Khuri, I thought.”

“To make him feel safe? But he hasn’t got a shred of fear in him.”

“I know.” She smiled down at her son, her face full of love. Now if she ever looked at him that way, Éomer thought, he’d just roll over onto his back and surrender. “It’s for Khuri’s sake,” she said. “Tarcil will keep her busy. She’s very nervous about the Paths of the Dead. But don’t let on I’ve told you that.”

“She hides it well behind that impassive face.” He grinned. “It unnerves my men.”

“Oh yes, she unnerved me when I first met her.” The apple finished, she tossed the core away and picked up her desk again. “Khuri used to be my personal guard, around me every day, but it took years for her to open up, let alone to elicit a smile from her. And that was all Tarcil’s doing.”

“And now?”

“We’ve come to respect each other, though we don’t always agree that I can look after myself. But she knows that her first priority is Tarcil’s safety.” Lothíriel hesitated, looking down at her drawing with eyes unseeing. “We would not have made it out of Harad without her, you know. She spoke the language and knew the customs. I just had my useless, elaborate court Haradric that would have given me away in an instant and knew nothing about the lives of the common people.”

“We owe her a great debt then,” Éomer said quietly. What would have happened to her, had she stayed in Harad? He did not even want to contemplate the idea.

“I certainly do,” Lothíriel agreed.

“And she never wanted to return to Harad, to her family?”

“She can’t. Khuri is dead.”

Éomer stared at her. “What?”

“Khuri was one of my husband’s body servants. Only the best fighters are chosen, it’s a great honour for the family, which is richly rewarded. But it means that her life was bound to his. Body servants cannot be released, they die with their master.”

“That must be a great incentive to keep him alive.”

“Yes, that’s the idea,” she agreed dryly.

“So why wasn’t she killed?”

“The others all died with him, but he sent her to bring me the news.” Her voice held no emotion whatsoever. “She could have killed herself then, it would have been the honourable thing to do. But she chose differently, she helped us get back to Gondor. And now her life is forfeit and she is far from home.”

And Lothíriel knew exactly how that felt, for she had experienced the same? Well, he had been unable to help her, but perhaps he could do something about Khuri.

“She could train with my men,” he suggested. “There’s nothing like beating each other up to make friends. I’m sure she’d be up to it.”

Lothíriel snorted. “Oh yes. But she might not want to give away how good she is.”

“But you need to practise to stay in shape. She doesn’t have to show us all her tricks, after all we won’t show her all of ours.”

“It’s an idea,” Lothíriel said. “I’ll suggest it to her. You’re very kind to go to so much trouble for us.”

“Please,” he said, “you’re the daughter of one of my best friends.”

At that she gave him a warm smile. “Almost family then, like Lord Aragorn?”

“Exactly.”

Except his feelings were anything but brotherly.

***

Next day they struck their camp and began their ascent in predawn light, for it would be a long day, taking many hours to pass under the mountains and make it all the way to Edoras. There were groans and some aching heads amongst those men who had sat up late talking and drinking, but everybody was looking forward to the end of their journey.

A narrow ravine with a stream running through it led to the gate to the Paths of the Dead, the cliffs either side high and sheer. They had to go in single file until they came to the gateway, a high arch leading into darkness, where they lit their torches and then continued riding two abreast. The path was level and smooth, Gimli’s people having mended it where necessary, but even so the going was slow and they had to concentrate on their footing.

All sound of the outside world died away, but the horses’ snorting and clop of their hooves echoed back eerily. One of the riders tried to lift his voice in song, as they liked to do while riding along, but it sounded so ghastly, he quickly fell silent again.

After a while the weight of the mountain began to press down on Éomer, making him long for the open sky. It was difficult to keep track of time as well, but after what he judged to be a few hours, he called a halt to have a quick bite to eat. He passed Firefoot’s reins to his squire Beortulf and walked back amongst his riders, pausing for a word of encouragement every now and again.

They had put the women and Tarcil in the middle of their group, and he found the boy asleep, Khuri holding him in her arms, her face even more impassive than usual.

Lothíriel gave him a tired smile when he stopped to pat Mellon’s neck. She had dismounted to give her horse a rest and was feeding it an apple, but even so it looked to be flagging.

“How are you doing?” Éomer asked. He really needed to get her a better, younger mount.

“I’m fine. It’s just difficult to believe that the sun is shining out there.”

He nodded. The mountain seemed to swallow the memory of light, open sky and wind in your face. “We must be halfway there by now.”

By common consent they did not pause long, but soon pressed on and after more uncounted time finally reached Baldor’s Cavern. Their torches could not light the great empty space, but his men knew it was not much further to the exit, and the mood lifted. He was glad they had removed Baldor’s bones, for that would not have been a pleasant sight for Lothíriel and Tarcil. Brego’s son now lay under a mound on the Firienfeld. Finally after all these years the white flowers of simbelmynë bloomed on his grave.

And at last a light began to grow ahead of them, faint at first, then ever brighter. They passed through the Dark Door, past the sentinel stone and into the Dimholt, a forest of dark fir trees that seemed almost an extension of the Paths of the Dead. Yet finally they emerged onto the Firienfeld and into the late afternoon sun, blinding to eyes used to the darkness for so long.

Éomer took a deep breath of the air, incredibly sweet after the musky smell of the passage under the mountains. Then he lifted his horn to his lips and blew it hard. The sound echoed back from the mountainside around them, celebrating their passage and safe return.

“Éomer Cyning,” the men stationed to guard the entrance to the Dimholt called. “The Lord of the Mark has returned!”

He looked round for Lothíriel, finding her blinking her eyes, taking in the steep rocky slopes behind them, the green field of grass and the row of standing stones dividing it.

Seeking her out, he bowed to her from the saddle. “Welcome to the Riddermark.”

He got a dazzling smile in return. “Thank you. It’s as beautiful as you said. Just look at those colours, they’re so fresh and vibrant. I feel as if I’d been reborn into a new world. I can hardly believe this is still the same day.”

“Yes, and tonight you’ll rest at Edoras. I can even promise hot baths all round. In fact I’m very much looking forward to one myself.”

The corners of her eyes crinkled. “But what will your men think of you? Won’t your reputation suffer?”

He threw back his head and laughed. “I’ll have to risk it. After all I don’t want to be known as Éomer the foul-smelling either.”

“I wouldn’t mind that,” Tarcil, who had woken up a while back, put in. “Baths are boring.”

“Then you should stop jumping in every dirty puddle that presents itself,” his mother pointed out mock-seriously.

Éomer leant forward. “It’s one of those things we men just have to bear bravely,” he told the boy.

After a brief break to water the horses, they got ready to tackle the last leg of the journey. From the Firienfeld a steep switchback road led down into the valley of the Snowbourne. There Déormund, Dúnhere’s son, Lord of Harrowdale, came to greet them and offer his hospitality. They accepted some food gladly, but did not stay to talk for long, for Éomer wanted to get home to Edoras.

Dusk had descended by the time they took the road again; the sky clouded over. And before they had even passed the next village, rain began to fall, a light drizzle at first, but rapidly turning into a chilly and persistent downpour. What a welcome to the Mark. All the time in Gondor it had been dry and now this. He knew it was an irrational feeling, but he could not help worrying that Lothíriel would hate the place.

The horses were tired and stumbling, and the riders felt no better by the time they finally approached Edoras. The barrows were dark shapes either side of the road, but he had sent a messenger ahead, so torches lit the gate and the wall, hissing in the rain. Horn calls greeted their homecoming, and despite the late hour and foul weather many of the townspeople came out to greet him and his men.

While most of the riders peeled off to find their own homes, his small party continued up the path to the courtyard in front of the hall, where grooms from the royal stables ran to take charge of the horses. When Éomer went to lift Tarcil down from where he sat in front of his mother, a big, soggy cloak wrapped around the two of them, he saw that Lothíriel looked exhausted. The boy had been fretful, complaining about the wet and insisting he wanted to ride with his mother.

“Nearly there,” he said, looking up at her. “Think of that bath.”

She snorted and dismounted stiffly. “It’s the only thing that kept me going the last few miles.”

With Éomer carrying the boy and Lothíriel taking Amrothos’s arm, they ascended the steps to the hall. Hailing him, the doorwardens threw the doors open. Meduseld stretched before them, sparely lit by the long hearth in the middle.

As they walked down the hall, despite her tiredness Lothíriel looked around her with interest at the richly carved pillars, the intricate patterns on the floor and the tapestries hanging on the walls. He wondered what she made of it. Did she compare it to her father’s castle by the sea? Or even Harad’s royal palace?

On the dais at the other end of the hall stood the king’s chair – his now, though sometimes he still half expected to find his uncle sitting in it. Beyond that a door flanked by two guards led into the private quarters. There Weynild, Meduseld’s housekeeper, awaited them. Her grey hair caught up in a severe bun, back ramrod straight, clothes spotless, she made them all look even more bedraggled by contrast.

“Welcome home, Éomer King,” she said, bobbing a curtsy.

“Thank you.” He turned to Lothíriel. “This is Weynild, who looks after us all.”

The princess smiled politely and got another curtsy and a sharp, appraising look, though quickly hidden. Éomer had sent a courier ahead with instructions while still in Dol Amroth, but suddenly he wondered what rumours might have got started. He frowned and hurried through the rest of the introductions, resolving to have a word with the woman later.

Weynild led them down the corridor and pushed open one of the doors. “I’ve made the Queen’s Rooms ready for Lady Lothíriel, as instructed.”

“The Queen’s Rooms?” Lothíriel asked, faltering. “Please, my lord, I would not want to impose on you. You do me great honour, but a modest guest room somewhere is all I require.”

“It’s the most convenient,” Éomer replied. “There’s a connecting door to Tarcil’s room next-door, which used to be the nursery. And it has its own bathroom.”

When she still hesitated, he explained further. “It’s also the most secure. There’s only a single entrance to the royal quarters, guarded all the time as you saw, and more men are within call. Also my own rooms are adjoining if anything should happen.”

That had actually been his original thought when he had arranged matters, but he might not have set it out in his letter quite clearly enough, to judge by the interested way that Weynild followed their conversation.

“Oh,” Lothíriel said, then gave a decisive nod. “Yes, that would be good. Thank you so much, my lord.”

Khuri, who had already inspected the corridor, went inside first and checked the windows, nodding approval when she saw they were more than a man’s height above the ground on this side of the hall, with guards patrolling outside. The room itself looked warm and inviting. A fire burnt in the hearth, on a table a plate of food and a jug of wine stood ready and new tapestries graced the walls. Weynild had done wonders, Éomer thought, for the room had stood empty for many years, ever since Queen Elfhild’s death.

“This used to be the queen’s solar,” she told Lothíriel, “but we’ve installed a bed and freshened up both rooms. And by now the bathwater should be ready.”

The princess gave her a warm smile. “It’s lovely. You have no idea how much I’m looking forward to a bath. Thank you so much, it must have been a lot of work getting the rooms ready on such short notice.”

Weynild unbent visibly. “Not at all, it’s a pleasure. I will leave you to it now.” She turned to Éomer. “Your bath is ready too, Éomer King. And I’ve had the guest chamber down the hall prepared for Prince Amrothos.”

With another curtsy she withdrew. The woman’s efficiency had something oppressive at times. Éomer fully understood why not even Wormtongue had dared interfere with her ordering of the household.

A revived Tarcil wriggled out of his arms and went to investigate first the food and then his rooms, followed by Khuri. Amrothos meanwhile had a look around and tried the connecting door to the King’s Rooms, only to find it locked.

“That leads into my quarters,” Éomer said.

“What?” Amrothos sounded startled.

“As Weynild explained, these are the rooms traditionally belonging to the queen. But we’ll just keep the door locked, with the key on this side.”

Amrothos frowned. “I’m not sure my father would approve. People might think…”

Lothíriel, who had just poured herself a glass of wine, lifted an eyebrow. “Really, Brother, you are getting more like Elphir every day. Do you suspect me of wanting to hop into the King of Rohan’s bed?”

“No, of course not, but–”

“Good, because if I wanted to, I could just as easily take the main door.” She turned to Éomer. “Don’t worry, I have no intention of doing so. The only place I want to hop into at the moment is a bath.”

He very nearly assured her reflexively that she was welcome in his bed any time, but settled for a gurgling sound instead.

“See, now you’ve embarrassed the King of Rohan,” Lothíriel said to her brother.

“Sister!” Amrothos protested.

Éomer knew only too well whom Amrothos suspected of wanting to seek a different bed. “I can have a bar fitted,” he offered stiffly.

“Certainly not,” Lothíriel exclaimed. “That would be insulting. In fact I’m perfectly fine with leaving it unlocked, and I don’t need a key.”

Speak of temptation… “No, better keep it the way it is,” he said.

“That’s settled then.” She turned to Amrothos and made a shooing motion. “See, I’m old enough to mind my own business. Now go and find your room, I want my bath.”

Éomer would have withdrawn too, but she stopped him a moment. “My lord, you really are exceedingly kind. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Not at all.”

“I’m afraid I’m not sure how long we have to stay here, but if at any time you need these chambers, you will tell me?” She sounded anxious.

“Please don’t worry about that.”

“But should you want to marry…”

Inwardly Éomer sighed. It did not look as if that would happen anytime soon. “I promise you’ll be the first to know,” he said.


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

During the next days it was as he had feared, all his time got taken up with matters that had accumulated during his long absence, and as a result he hardly saw Lothíriel at all. Both Erkenbrand and Elfhelm came to visit once they heard of his return. Meanwhile his council had been busy with schemes for rebuilding the villages in the West-mark. Saruman’s orcs had wrought great devastation there and he took a personal interest in making sure everything possible was done to ease his people’s hardship. He also held a grievance day to settle disputes and saw Lothíriel with her brother amongst the attending crowd, but was too busy to talk to her.

For the evening meal, she seemed to consider her place to be amongst the elderly matrons. Meduseld stood open to the families of all current or former riders of the king’s personal éored, and many widows of Théoden’s knights came every day. He saw her talking to Leofrun, whose husband Háma, chief of the doorwardens, had fallen at Helm’s Deep, but also to Éothain’s wife Eanswith. One evening he stopped by to ask how she was settling in, conscious of a great many eyes on them. Not that she seemed to notice anything, smiling at him as serenely as always, answering that she had all she needed.

Well, _he_ didn’t, but still had no idea how to woo this woman who had forsworn the world. And cheerfully so too. Often at night he heard her next-door, talking to Khuri or laughing with Tarcil, while he got ready for his cold, lonely bed. It made him want to gnash his teeth.

He had not forgotten his promises though. So when one day he encountered Khuri in the corridor outside his rooms, he invited her down to the training grounds. The woman gave him an unreadable look in answer.

“If you want to keep your edge, you need to practise with real opponents,” he pointed out to her.

She only gave a curt nod, and he wasn’t sure if she would take him up on his offer, but a few days later she turned up at the training fields outside Edoras, accompanied by Lothíriel and Tarcil. Éomer was in the middle of a bout with Amrothos, but they broke it off to go and greet them.

The boy was sitting proudly atop his new pony, a sturdy, well-bred animal from the royal herds, but Éomer noticed that Lothíriel was still riding her aunt’s horse Mellon, even though he had encouraged her to borrow one from his stables. He sighed inwardly. She was willing to be beholden to him for her son’s sake, but not for her own. Unless he could persuade her that she was doing him a favour by exercising one of his horses, he would probably never see her suitably mounted.

He would have liked to give her dresses in rich, bright colours and jewellery worthy of her beauty, horses and furs, all the traditional courting gifts of a rider of the Mark, but he knew they would not be welcome. Éomer sighed again. The only thing in his power to give her was time.

When he introduced Khuri to Tunfrith, his master-at-arms, and showed her the protective gear and blunted weapons they practised with, a murmur of ‘scildmaegden’ went up amongst his men. She ignored it and after a quick inspection settled on a pair of short swords that were the most similar to the curved scimitars she wore on her back.

Tunfrith set her up against one of his smaller fighters first. The man regarded her warily as they saluted each other. None of Éomer’s riders took a woman warrior lightly – Éowyn had taught them that.

A wooden fence surrounded the training fields, which was a popular place for the female population of Edoras, as well as fellow warriors, to watch the fights. Lothíriel helped Tarcil sit on one of the bars, then climbed up herself. She gave her brother and Éomer a friendly smile when they joined her.

“Now this should be interesting,” Amrothos said. “I’ve never seen her fight.”

“I have,” Lothíriel said, then suddenly pressed her lips together.

During their flight from Harad? Éomer wondered. But her expression forbade any questions.

The two opponents began to circle each other, then the rider tried a feint, smoothly blocked by Khuri, followed by a few more tentative exchanges. Using twin blades was not a technique usually seen in the Mark. Éomer was curious to observe how she handled them.

He himself preferred the long sword, as it gave him more reach from horseback. And even on foot, when wielded double-handed by a man of his size and strength, it had devastating power. As he had proved more than once on the battlefield.

However, he could see what advantages the use of double swords conferred on Khuri. They were like extensions of herself. Equally dexterous with either hand, she used one blade to block while attacking with the other one, much like some men used sword and dagger. And she was playing with his rider, he suddenly realised, and could have ended it several times already. Why, she wasn’t even breathing hard.

Amrothos had come to the same conclusion. “She’s holding back.”

Éomer frowned. That was a dangerous habit to get into, one that could get you killed.

Khuri was not wearing armour, so he slipped out of his hauberk and gave it into his squire Beortulf’s care, leaving only the padded jacket underneath for protection. Putting on his horsetail helmet and hefting his practise sword, he stepped into the sparring circle marked out on the ground with sawdust and motioned his rider to back away.

Khuri’s eyes behind the slits of her visor widened. Éomer stepped to the right and she mirrored him, on her guard.

“You’re not fighting all out,” he said.

She inclined her head in cautious agreement.

“But you need to, or you won’t be ready when it really counts.” And he attacked.

She countered the blow, but just barely, catching it on one of her swords and sliding it away. At once she spun round to attack with the other, but Éomer had expected it and was ready. Khuri had to jump back sharply to avoid his blade. Éomer gave her no chance to recover, but drove her before him with the kind of powerful strokes that on a battlefield maimed or killed the enemy.

She was quick though. And she began to fight him in earnest. Good, he thought, only to have to jump back himself at a fiendishly fast counter. The fight was even now, her quickness and dexterity against his superior strength and reach, both of them breathing hard.

Strike, block, strike again, try to find a way through the barrier of shining steel she put up with her twin swords while not having his own blade caught. Attack high, attack low, build up a rhythm, break it deliberately. But she was ready for it all and quick as a striking snake to take any opportunity to counter-attack.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw that they had attracted quite an audience, but he had no time to concentrate on anything but his opponent. Was she slowing down? He thought so, but when he tried to take advantage of it, only an extremely unorthodox move saved him from being skewered. His admiration rose another notch.

“Cleverly done,” he panted.

Khuri just smiled grimly.

However, he could tell that having to counter his constant blows was beginning to tire her out. She had already held out longer than most of his men could have managed.

Suddenly he saw his chance. Her response to his strikes lagged just a little, not much, but it was enough. He let her parry with her right hand sword, then, while she was moving her other blade round to attack, swept his own sword up and caught her on the wrong foot.

She jumped back and he followed – he could be fast too – and closed the distance between them. Letting go of his grip with his left hand, he clipped her under the chin hard.

Khuri tripped and went down, dropping her blades, to lie stunned on the ground. But only a moment, then she reached for something up her sleeve.

However, Éomer already had the tip of his sword at her throat. “Don’t.”

She relaxed and let her arms sink down again. Slowly he withdrew his blade, then held out a hand to help her up. “That was well fought, Khuri.”

After a brief hesitation she accepted it. Standing up, she rubbed her jaw; Éomer thought guiltily that she would have a bruise the next day.

“You have to be careful not to let anybody get close to you,” he told her. “A strike like that with an armoured gauntlet can break bones.” He knew, for he had done it before. “The best way to counter it is to duck and sweep at your opponent’s groin.”

He motioned one of his riders over and demonstrated the move. “No man wants to be hit there, it’s instinctive.” In fact that particular counter had been one of Éowyn’s favourite ones. She had not hesitated to use it against her own brother either.

“Why are you showing me?” Khuri asked.

While he had heard her speak to Lothíriel before, this was the first time she addressed him directly. However, he pretended it was nothing unusual.

“So next time you won’t be taken by surprise and know how to counter.” He fixed her with his eyes. “You protect Tarcil and Lothíriel, stand between them and harm’s way. I want you to be the best and deadliest that is possible.”

She measured him carefully before giving a small nod.

“Will you train with us again?” he asked.

Another curt nod.

“Good. I’m looking forward to it.”

She bared her teeth in a smile. “I am too.”

He suddenly wondered what he had let himself and his men in for. But he still had a few more tricks up his sleeve. “Sorry about the jaw,” he added impulsively.

Khuri grimaced. “I’ve had worse.”

“By the way, how many knives have you got hidden on your person?”

Her eyes grew hooded. “I don’t understand.”

“I think you do. But remember, knives are no use unless you can reach them quickly.”

Leaving the training ring, he took off his helmet and handed it to Beortulf.

“An interesting bout indeed,” Amrothos commented.

Tarcil, sitting on top of the fence next to his mother, regarded him with big eyes. “You hit Khuri.”

“I didn’t strike her hard,” Éomer protested.

“Mummy says no real man hits a woman.”

“No, of course not,” Éomer agreed, flustered. Then suddenly he felt as if he had been punched himself. No real man? Had that brute of a husband beaten her? But why should that surprise him, the man had no doubt done much worse to her. It was a miracle she had come through with her mind and spirit intact.

He took a deep breath. “Your mother is right, Tarcil. However, Khuri is what we call a shieldmaiden. She fights. This means that she has to learn to defend herself against such an attack. Next time she will know how to block that particular move.”

This seemed to be a bit too complicated for a six year old. “So it’s all right to hit a shieldmaiden?” the boy asked after a moment’s consideration.

Éomer thought of his sister. “If you’re willing to take the return blow.”

“Oh.”

While he took off his padded jacket, he noticed with satisfaction that on the training field the man who had first fought Khuri offered her a cup of water. And another of his riders asked her to demonstrate how she used her two swords to block a particular type of attack.

“It seems you were right,” Lothíriel said to him. “There’s nothing like beating each other up to make friends.” Her eyes flicked over him, and he became aware of the fact that his shirt stuck to him and he probably smelt of sweat and man. “But I have to admit I did not expect you to do the beating up,” she added lightly.

“You know I would never hurt a woman, don’t you,” he exclaimed. “Never!” He realised that he had just done so. “I mean outside the practice ring–”

“Of course I know.” She regarded him with surprise at his vehemence. “I did not mean to impugn your honour, my lord. And I’ll explain to Tarcil the difference between a strike in anger and a training bout.” A frown creased her brow. “It’s just a rule I wanted to make very clear: being stronger does not give you the right to use that strength against those weaker than you. I’ve seen too much of such casual violence in Harad, from master to slave, but even between husband and wife.” She sighed. “Some of those poor women…”

Those poor women? “Not you then?” he blurted out in his relief.

“What?” Her eyes blazed with sudden fire. “Certainly not. How dare you! Arantar would never have lifted his hand against me.” She jumped off the stile and stalked off.

“It’s useless,” Amrothos said next to him. “I don’t know what that man did to her, but she won’t hear a word said against him.” He shrugged. “We’ve found it’s better not to touch on the subject.”

Éomer watched Lothíriel busy herself with her horse, patting Mellon’s neck, then leaning against him as if for comfort. She looked so forlorn, all he wanted to do was to gather her up in his arms and make her forget the past.

Finding herself completely at her husband’s mercy, it had probably been a matter of pure survival for her to efface all her personality and turn herself into the obedient, biddable wife he wanted. Deep inside she still had to learn that she was free now.

And yet, he suddenly thought. This was the woman who had bought Gondor six years of desperately needed time. That was not the work of a downtrodden wife, that took power of a special sort.

He frowned.

***

The next few days he again saw very little of Lothíriel. One thing he was determined to do though: to see her properly mounted. So on a morning when the Mark showed herself in the best light, bright with sunshine, he sought her out. He found her in the gardens that covered part of the southern slope of Meduseld’s hill. Designed by his grandmother Morwen of Lossarnach, they held many useful plants for both kitchen and infirmary, but also had sheltered corners to sit and enjoy the view.

Following the sound of children laughing, he discovered her sitting on a bench with her little desk on her lap, drawing in her book. Tarcil was playing hide-and-seek with some of the children of Edoras, amongst them Éothain’s twins and Háma’s daughter, who were about the same age.

When they spotted Éomer, they swarmed him, demanding that he pretend to be a warg. He had done so once when invited round Éothain’s. Ever since it had become their favourite game, though Eanswith, Éothain’s wife, had threatened to forbid him from visiting around bedtime.

Pestered mercilessly, he did indulge the children by chasing them up and down the hill a couple of times amongst much squealing and shrieking, but then sank down on the bench by Lothíriel’s side, out of breath from laughing.

She grinned at him. “That was a terrifying sight. I nearly ran away in fright myself.”

“Please don’t,” he said. “I’m not sure I’m up to any more exertion.” Although privately he thought he would not mind chasing and catching her at all.

Her beautiful grey eyes sparkled with mirth, and her hair fell in a rich, shining curtain down her back. Also, though still dressed in sombre colours, she had wrapped a lacy blue scarf around her shoulders, providing a splash of colour.

Their corner of the garden was sheltered from the breeze and warmed by the spring sun, with early flowers attracting the first intrepid bees and the scent of herbs filling the air. He indicated the sketch book on her lap. “Have you been drawing?”

“Yes, indeed. The view from here is lovely.”

He remembered the formal gardens of Dol Amroth with their rows of carefully trimmed box hedges. “I’m afraid it’s only a small, simple garden, compared to what you’re used to.”

“Not at all. I love how it’s so open, that you can watch the mountains change with the weather, and the birds are free to come and go as they please. As you said, Rohan is a beautiful country.”

He beamed at her. “Oh yes. Now that spring has truly arrived, the meadows will soon be covered in wild flowers. And then in the summer I’ll take you to the Eastemnet, where the grass ripples in the breeze like waves on the sea, with the blue sky enormous above it.” He smiled at the mental picture of them racing across the plains. “As for autumn, that’s both beautiful and exhilarating with the woods turning to gold and storms sweeping across the land. But I love winter too, the land dormant under the snow. When it gets really cold, we can ride to Aldburg and I’ll show you the waterfalls in the mountains turned to sculptures of ice.”

She gave him a warm smile. “I’d love to see them, only by then I might not be here anymore. I’m not sure when it will be safe for me to return to my father’s.”

He looked down, his pleasing picture of the future fading. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry I got carried away.”

“Not at all. You love your country very much, don’t you.”

“Yes,” he said simply. “I would do anything for the Mark.”

“I think Rohan is lucky to have you for its king.”

“I’m only doing what every proper king would do for his country,” he answered, though secretly pleased. “To make sure his people can live in peace and prosperity.”

“Yes, but it makes a big difference whether the king serves his country or the country serves its king,” she said, looking out over the view again. “Escaping from Harad taught me that. The lowliest crofter in Gondor or Rohan is a prince in comparison to a Haradric farmer.” She bit her lips and touched her golden torc. “The court there is so opulent, I didn’t realise until I had to hide amongst the common people how desperately poor they are.”

His curiosity had been piqued before by the mention of her flight. Since the topic did not seem to distress her, he chanced a question. “Did you have to flee from your husband’s brother?”

“Yes, Prince Narmacil would have had Tarcil killed too. He was the son of King Hyarmendacil’s second wife, and both he and his younger brother were seduced by Sauron’s promises.” Her brows drew down into an angry frown. “It is fitting he should have paid with his life.”

“Was he the King of the Haradrim slain on the Pelennor Fields?”

“Yes indeed. Your uncle did me a great service.”

“I only wish I could have killed him myself,” Éomer muttered.

“Yes, me too.” She was staring into nothing. “Now I just hope that they’ll leave us alone, even though Tarcil is Harad’s rightful king.”

“Is that what you want for him, to rule Harad?” he asked, curious.

“Not at all,” she exclaimed. “That court is like a snake pit, it destroys a man’s honour and soul. However, it is not for me to decide Tarcil’s future. I won’t let anybody use him, but if one day he wants to fight for his inheritance, I will support him.” She sighed. “I had hoped he might take to seafaring and become a mariner like Amrothos. However, he was terribly seasick on the journey home from Pelargir.”

“He likes horses,” Éomer pointed out.

“Yes, that’s true.” She pondered the idea for a moment. “I suppose my father might find him a place amongst his knights. But anyway, that won’t be for a long time yet.”

Quite obviously she considered herself only a guest passing through, Éomer thought, feeling frustrated. But as the saying went: pulling on grass did not make it grow faster. “Speaking of horses, I wanted to invite you to come on a ride to see the royal herds,” he said, changing the subject. “It would be a good opportunity for you to try out a new mount.”

“You’re very kind, but indeed, that’s not necessary.”

“When Amrothos returns to Dol Amroth, he will take Mellon back to your aunt,” he pointed out. “You’ll need a horse.” In fact her brother planned to leave the next day, heading for Minas Tirith first and then home.

“Yes, but any horse will do,” she assured him. “You need not trouble yourself with me.”

Any horse would not do, not for her, he thought, but kept his opinion to himself. “Please,” he said. “It’s an excellent excuse to get away from my council. If they catch me, I’ll have to spend the rest of the day cooped up in a stuffy room, listening to them drone on endlessly.”

She rested her chin on her hand and studied him. “Poor, helpless King Éomer, at his advisers’ mercy. My heart is bleeding for you.”

“You have no idea of the horrors I endure,” he sighed. “A ride in the open air would be a balm for my tortured soul.”

“In other words, I would be doing you a favour.”

He grinned. “Absolutely.”

“And you would be forever in my debt.”

“I would kiss your feet.” And elsewhere too, if she would let him.

Lothíriel broke into laughter. “That won’t be necessary. A ride sounds lovely, thank you very much, my lord.”

“Won’t you call me Éomer?” he asked impulsively. When she hesitated, he gave her his best smile. “We’re less formal here than in Gondor, as you might have noticed.”

“Your men don’t call you by your first name,” she pointed out dryly.

“My men take orders from me, you don’t. Between a king and a queen, so to speak?” His queen one day, if he had anything to say about it.

“Very well…Éomer.” She chuckled. “No doubt it will scandalise Amrothos. He’s become quite stuffy lately.”

He took her hand and breathed a kiss on it. “Thank you…Lothíriel.”

Startled, she regarded him with a sudden crease between her brows.

Éomer jumped up. “So, shall we make our escape?”


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Lothíriel might have agreed to come on an outing with him, but she refused to ride any of the pretty mares that Éomer had added to the royal stables in the hope of tempting her, and instead chose her trusty Mellon. He would have loved to see her on something more high-spirited, but knew better than to push his luck.

They ended up with a whole pack of children along as well. Once Tarcil heard they were going to see horses, he announced he was coming too, which made Éothain’s twin boys pester their father mercilessly. As for Hildwyn, Háma’s daughter, she simply turned up with her pony in tow.

This meant that the children’s mothers decided their presence was needed to keep an eye on things, since apparently two dozen of the king’s best riders could not be trusted to bring their offspring back safely. At least Eanswith left the rest of her brood of children in her mother-in-law’s care. The only one who decided to give their outing a pass was Amrothos, who had the long ride to Minas Tirith ahead of him the next day.

It took a while to sort everybody out, but finally they rode down the cobbled road leading to the gates. The town was busy, for it was a market day. Most of the stalls sold food, clothes or leather wares from the farms around Edoras, but there were some traders from farther afield in the Mark and even a few Gondorians. It pleased him to see signs of prosperity everywhere, houses freshly thatched, gardens planted with orderly rows of vegetables and the people greeting him with confidence and good cheer.

Rohirric children learnt to ride as soon as they could walk. The moment they passed the gates, Hildwyn and Éothain’s boys raced ahead on their ponies, followed by Tarcil grimly determined to keep up. They took the Great West Road with the River Snowbourn on their left, bordered by willows.

On their right, at the bottom of the foothills, stretched the burial grounds of Edoras, encircled by a low, mossy stone wall and shaded by ash and yew trees. A few women were busy amongst the graves and memorial stones set up for those fallen at the Hornburg and in Gondor, raking away dead leaves and lovingly cleaning the stones. Simbelmynë threw thick amongst the grass.

Éomer looked away. This time a year ago he had been in Gondor on the way to the Black Gates, the new king of the Rohirrim and quite possibly also the last.

He had been aware of course of the dates coming one after the other: the battle at the Fords of the Isen where Théodred had fallen, Helm’s Deep, the Fields of the Pelennor. They had not celebrated the anniversaries of any of the battles, their losses were still too raw for that. However, there would be a feast held on the day of Sauron’s downfall. Weynild’s staff was already busy hauling up casks of ale.

“What are you thinking about?” Lothíriel’s soft voice interrupted his brooding.

He realised he had been frowning. “Just how much my life has changed in a year, all unlooked-for.”

She nodded. “I know. You think that your life is set on a certain course and suddenly it’s all different.”

“I thought I’d serve my cousin as Third Marshal and settle down in Aldburg, like my father before me.” He motioned towards their guard of riders. “Now I’m King of the Mark, Sauron has fallen and Éowyn has moved to far-away Ithilien, none of which I’d ever envisioned.”

She gave him a measuring look. “Do you enjoy being king?”

“I never sought it.” He hesitated. “And yet, it gives me the means of making a difference, of keeping my people safe and shaping a better future for them.” He tried for a lighter tone. “And I like getting my own way.”

“Really?” she quipped, following his lead. “I never would have guessed.” Éothain riding beside him snorted audibly.

Up ahead the children squealed with delight as they splashed through the stream and back again. He noticed Lothíriel looking worried. “They’ll be fine,” he assured her.

Éothain’s wife Eanswith had come riding up on her husband’s other side and leant forward. “There are hardly ever any broken bones.”

These words, spoken in a hearty tone, did not seem to reassure Lothíriel. Khuri, riding ahead of them, turned round and gave her a questioning look, as if to ask if she should interfere, but after a moment’s hesitation the princess shook her head.

Eanswith, a voluble woman, began to regale Lothíriel with an account of some of the antics her children had been up to, making all of them laugh, and even Háma’s widow Leofrun chimed in shyly with a story. His mood lifted. The very ordinariness of going for a ride with friends, talking about nothing in particular and just enjoying the spring sunshine cheered him.

Since the age of eleven, when his father had been slain by orcs, Éomer had dedicated his life to fighting anybody who threatened his family. Even in the dark days of Wormtongue’s rule of Meduseld, when it seemed a losing battle, he had never given up, as much out of stubbornness as anything else. But after years of constant warfare, he needed such moments of peace to remember that killing orcs was not an end in itself and what he was really fighting for.

Sometimes he still found it difficult to believe that they had survived and even triumphed. Watching Lothíriel grin at something Éothain said, he decided that perhaps with the right woman in his life, sharing his laughter and teasing him, it would start to feel real. Unfortunately he still did not know how to make that happen.

The three women suddenly looked up, as if alerted by some common maternal instinct. He realised the quality of the children’s voices had changed and there seemed to be some kind of melee going on amongst them.

“What are those boys up to now?” Éothain sighed and spurred his horse forward.

However, when they caught up with the group, they found that it was Hildwyn and Tarcil who glowered at each other, both of them sporting red marks on their faces.

“Tarcil,” Lothíriel said sharply. “What is this? Have you hit Hildwyn?”

“Yes,” the boy answered. “But I’m allowed to. She’s a shieldmaiden and I took the return blow.” Éomer winced at having his lesson repeated so concisely. “She called me names,” Tarcil added.

Poor Leofrun, thoroughly flustered, turned to her daughter. “Is this true, what did you call the prince? Remember, he’s a guest here.” She was such a gentle creature, it constantly amazed Éomer how she had produced a daughter like Hildwyn.

The girl sniffed. “I called him a _sl_ _áwyrm_ , because that is what he is. He can’t expect us to wait for him all the time.”

Éomer translated her words. “Apparently she considers him as slow as a worm.”

“I’m not,” the boy fired up. “And she’s a stupid _garrash-akar_.”

“Tarcil!” There was a definite note of warning in Lothíriel’s voice, but it shook slightly. Khuri turned her face away as if to hide laughter.

Éomer turned to Hildwyn. “Tarcil is a stranger here, so he doesn’t know the terrain as well as you do,” he said diplomatically. “It would be polite to help him. In his turn, he’s better at other things.”

The girl looked unconvinced. “At what?”

Momentarily stymied, Éomer searched for something to say.

“Riding mûmakil,” Lothíriel put in.

The children’s eyes grew big. “He has ridden one of those beasts?” Hildwyn asked. “Really?”

“Oh yes, and so have I. But only once.”

“Oh!” the girl breathed. Éomer got the feeling Tarcil’s credit had just risen enormously.

Hildwyn considered Tarcil, then held out her hand. “You ride well for foreigner. Friends again?”

The boy took her hand. “Friends. You fight well for a girl,” he added grudgingly.

She laughed. “Race you to that tree up the road, _garrash-akar_.”

He took off after her, followed by Éothain’s boys. “ _Sl_ _áwyrm_ yourself!”

Lothíriel exchanged a wry look with Khuri. “My son is picking up some useful Rohirric words by the looks of it.”

“What did he call her?” Éomer asked, curious.

She grinned. “A eunuch.”

“What?” Surely he had misunderstood?

“A man who has been gelded,” she explained. “But Tarcil wouldn’t know what it means.”

When Éomer and Éothain looked at her in instinctive horror, she shrugged. “There were many of them at the Harad court, some very powerful, which made them disliked. Tarcil probably picked it up from my husband’s guards.”

Éomer shook his head. She said it so matter-of-factly. It made him realise anew what a very different world she had inhabited.

With peace restored, or at least a ceasefire established, the women dropped back a little. Eanswith had started to teach Lothíriel some Rohirric and was naming different plants and objects at the farmsteads they were passing. While the princess had a quick mind and good memory, she kept getting the word order wrong, which caused lots of laughter. She also teased Eanswith for making her learn the language of a country where she would only stay a few months, but promised to humour her.

After a while the talk turned to the topic of childbirth, natural enough since Eanswith was pregnant again. But Éomer exchanged a single glance with Éothain and then as one they urged their horses forward. He shuddered. Some things he did not have a strong enough stomach for.

“Lady Lothíriel seems to like it here in the Mark,” Éothain remarked when they slowed their horses down again out of earshot of the women.

“She’s our guest, I’m trying to make her welcome,” Éomer answered guardedly. What was his friend up to?

“A very attractive woman…”

He suddenly wondered what rumours were going round and had the sinking feeling he might find out shortly. “I suppose so.”

“You suppose so?” Éothain chuckled. “Come on, I know that look in your eyes.”

“Nonsense. She’s simply the daughter of a good friend.”

Éothain raised his eyebrows. “But you want Lady Lothíriel to choose a mount for herself. Isn’t that why we’re riding out to see the royal herds?”

To a woman of the Riddermark such a gift would have been as good as a declaration of love, especially when offered her choice of a man’s best horses.

“Amrothos is taking hers back to Dol Amroth, so she needs a horse to ride, that’s all,” Éomer said, hoping to put an end to the conversation. “You’re reading far too much into it.”

However, he had not managed to convince his friend. “Rubbish,” Éothain declared. “You look at her as if she was a tasty morsel and you a starving man.”

“What? I am not.” At least he hoped not. Drat Éothain and his interfering ways.

“Well, perhaps not starving,” Éothain allowed. “But very hungry.” He mulled over his choice of words. “Definitely more than just peckish.”

Éomer held up a hand. “That’s enough. Éothain, I will not have any gossip spread about Lady Lothíriel, is that clear?”

“Well, if there is, it won’t be my fault. But I don’t see what’s the problem. You like her, she likes you…”

Sometimes he envied Éothain his simple view of the world. “If only it were that easy,” he muttered.

Éothain shrugged. “But it is easy: you’re a king and need a wife.”

“I am aware of that fact,” Éomer growled. “My advisers have been telling me for the last year that the House of Eorl needs an heir.”

“Well, there you go. She’s pretty, a princess, you fancy her. Surely that makes her perfect.” Éothain frowned. “She hasn’t refused you, surely? Why, you’re the King of the Mark.” He sounded offended.

“No she hasn’t.”

“Then why–”

“I haven’t asked her.”

Éothain stared at him. “But why not? If you’re not careful somebody else might snatch her up. I’m telling you, when I was courting Eanswith I had to be quick.” He puffed out his chest. “But I pulled it off. What works wonders with women is to–”

“Éothain, my friend,” Éomer interrupted with a shudder. “If I’m ever in the extremely unlikely position of wanting your advice on how to court a woman, I’ll let you know.”

Éothain grinned. “You never had any problems before.”

“And I’m not having any problems now,” Éomer snapped. When Éothain opened his mouth, he decided to pull rank. “Captain,” he said, “this conversation is finished.”

His friend shrugged. “As you please.”

Éomer fixed him with a stern glare. “And I meant it when I said I will not have any gossip.”

“In that case you ought to be more careful with your eyes.”

Éomer noticed that the children had got rather far ahead. “Let’s catch up,” he said and urged Firefoot into a canter.

***

During the winter and spring months, the Rohirrim kept their horse herds in the sheltered valleys at the foot of the White Mountains, before heading out onto the green plains of the Eastemnet in early summer. It was a busy time, filled with training the yearlings, followed by the foaling and breeding season.

Éomer took a keen interest in all aspects of managing his herds, though to his regret he could no longer spend as much time on it as he used to. The place he wanted to visit was where they kept some of their most promising horses. Askdale Vale wound its way into the mountains, its sides covered by dark pine forests, with waterfalls frothing down and joining the silvery stream running along the valley floor.

They soon came upon the horse farm, made up of foaling stables surrounded by pastures. Wiglaf, who ran the place together with his wife, came out to greet them. Éomer noticed that many grooms clustered at the stable doors or sat on the railings of the nearby practice ring, watching them curiously. Was there anybody left to mind the horses?

The children at once clamoured to see the newborn foals, and Wiglaf was only too happy to show them round. Inspecting the boxes holding the dams with their foals, Éomer was pleased to see that they held a good crop, though it would take a long time to make up their losses in the war. And it was not only horses they had lost. Wiglaf was new to his task, his predecessor having fallen before the walls of Minas Tirith. However, he was young and full of enthusiasm, determined to know all the pedigrees off by heart.

His Westron was limited though, so Éomer had to translate. He wondered if Lothíriel noticed that the man called her ‘cwén’ several times. Although strictly speaking of course she was a queen, even if not Wiglaf’s.

Yet.

Lothíriel admired the horses, saying all the right things, and with the other women cooed over the newborn foals standing shakily by their dam’s side on long legs. The foaling boxes having been inspected, they moved outside to the paddocks, where the older foals raced each other much like equine versions of Tarcil and the other children.

Éomer’s personal interest was with the yearlings and older horses in training however. He intended to bring a few of the best back with him to Edoras, for the royal stable master to take in hand. Deep in discussion with Wiglaf on the merits of Flamewind, descended from the same sire as Firefoot, he suddenly realised that Lothíriel standing next to him probably did not understand a word.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I did not mean to bore you.”

“Not at all.” She patted the stallion’s neck. “It’s a great honour to be shown the famous steeds of the Rohirrim. Will he be one of yours one day?”

“Possibly. Flamewind is still green, but shows great promise. I intend to take him along to Edoras and start training him for war in earnest.” He unearthed a carrot from his pocket. “Here, this will turn him into your willing slave. He’s a glutton.”

With a grin she held out her hand to the stallion. Flamewind slurped up the carrot in one go, his velvety lips hardly brushing her skin. “You do the training yourself?” she asked.

“As much as possible. There’s no better way to build the necessary trust between horse and rider, to find out what I can ask of him.” He sighed. “I used to school all my horses from yearling to full-grown warhorse, but I just don’t have the time for that anymore.”

She nodded sympathetically. “At what age do you start them?”

“We let the young horses run wild on the plains for two summers first. They should know what it means to be free, what we’re fighting for.”

She gave him a warm smile. “I like that. But doesn’t it make it difficult to get them used to the saddle?”

“We do it slowly.” He grinned reminiscently. “Mind you, Firefoot nearly kicked in my teeth when I first tried to catch him.”

Her eyes danced with laughter. “All your friendships seem to start out in a combative way.”

Puzzled, Éomer stared down at her, then remembered what he had told her about meeting Gimli and Legolas. He chuckled. “Very true, even Aragorn got threatened on our first meeting. Only your father was spared.”

“Oh, nobody would dare to treat him with anything but complete courtesy,” she answered lightly.

Éomer could only agree. “He does have a stern countenance at times.”

“I doubt you’ve ever seen him at his most quelling. Many are the times Amrothos and I got dragged before him for some misdemeanour.” She looked pensive. “Poor father. We must have given him a hard time, with both of us such handfuls. My aunt Ivriniel did her best, but she had her own children to look after. No wonder we ran wild.”

She was so controlled now, it was difficult to imagine her as an unruly child. The wildness had been transformed into a sharp-edged determination, like a blade forged in fire. He admired her for it, yet at the same time he wished her to regain some of that light-hearted freedom. And he had been staring at her too long, he realised, not being careful enough with his eyes.

He tore his gaze away. “You haven’t tried to find a horse for yourself yet, even though that’s why we’re here.”

“No, but like I said, I don’t really need one.”

“Yes you do. You mustn’t contradict a king in his own land, you know.”

Lothíriel smiled, humouring him. “Ah yes, I forgot. You always get your own way.”

“Not nearly often enough.”

She laughed. “You mean when faced with your council?”

Little did she know. But when he offered her his arm, she took it and let him lead her back to the paddock, where Wiglaf had assembled some of the finest horses he had in training. It was a pleasant feeling to have her walking by his side, her hand tucked into the crook of his elbow. He glanced down at her. She had caught up her riding skirts with the other hand to keep them off the muddy ground, and he got a glimpse of long legs clad in leggings.

A curl had escaped the braid falling down her back and involuntarily he imagined teasing those heavy tresses apart and running his fingers through that luxurious, shiny wealth of hair. And elsewhere too. Careful with your eyes, he reminded himself, aware of a stable yard full of his riders. There was already more gossip going around than he cared for.

Yet when they reached the enclosure, he could not resist the temptation. “Allow me,” he said.

And he seized her round the waist and lifted her up onto the railings. Surprised, she rested her hands on his shoulders for a moment. He grinned a challenge up at her.

“I’m quite capable of climbing a fence, you know,” she said mildly, but there was a tinge of red in her cheeks.

Was it too much to hope she was not altogether indifferent to him? She seemed to enjoy his company anyway. Or was she simply too polite to give him the kind of crushing set-down Unferth had suffered? Now that was a lowering thought.

Wiglaf led up the first of the horses, a pretty dapple-grey mare. They had acquired quite a crowd of onlookers, though Éomer wasn’t sure if they came to see the horses or their king. However, at once a lively discussion regarding the mare’s finer points started, her proud carriage, the clean line of her back, the neat way she flicked her hooves while trotting around the ring.

Lothíriel nodded to it all when he translated the comments and admired the mare, but there was none of that instant attraction between rider and mount, that exchange of a piece of your heart. Éomer considered riding a young, spirited horse and getting to know each other one of the great joys in life and wanted her to experience it. But it was the same with all the other horses, none of them called forth a spark, even though he himself had chosen them, thinking they might suit her.

“So which one do you like the best?” he asked when they had inspected the full two dozen.

“Oh, they’re all lovely,” she said. “Really, any one will do.”

He felt like grinding his teeth. Lothíriel must have sensed his frustration, for she regarded him uncertainly. “It’s a difficult choice. Which one do you think the nicest?”

She should be the one to choose. But how could she do that if she refused to open her heart to even a horse.

That moment a loud neigh rang out. Éomer looked a question at Wiglaf.

“It’s that black demon you brought back from Mundburg,” the man said. When Éomer looked blank, he explained further. “Part of the loot from the battle of the Pelennor Fields.”

Another angry neigh sounded. “Excuse me,” Wiglaf said.

Lothíriel jumped down from the fence. “Shall we have a look?” He got the impression she was grateful for the interruption. Had he pressed her too hard?

They followed Wiglaf round the back of the barn, where the breeding pens were situated, though standing empty at the moment. In an adjacent field two grooms clustered around a horse. It had a rope thrown around its neck, but was straining against it. Éomer frowned. Didn’t they know how to handle a nervous horse? But getting closer he saw that they were only a couple of young lads. The loss of so many men in Gondor meant everybody had to pitch in to keep things going.

He recognised the horse now. The stallion had been part of the spoils brought back from Minas Tirith, small, but with a nice conformation and of a deep black colour. Since they had lost so many of their black horses to orc raids, he had thought to breed him to a couple of their mares to see what foals he might produce.

“What’s the matter with him?” he asked.

“He’s wild and dislikes being ridden,” Wiglaf said. “Not vicious, but high strung. We employ him as a teaser stallion.”

Éomer nodded. A teaser stallion was used to test a mare’s reaction, to see if she was ready to breed. He did not translate that last bit to the princess though.

Made nervous by the crowd, the horse backed farther away, and the lads had to let out the rope.

“We picked him up in Gondor,” Éomer said to Lothíriel. “He might actually be Haradric.”

“He could be,” she agreed. “I thought I recognised the breed.” She ducked under the fence.

At once he followed her. “What are you doing?”

“I might be able to talk to him.”

Talk? He felt doubtful that would work, but took the rope from the handlers and waved them back. “Be careful,” he said to Lothíriel, ready to jump forward if necessary. Behind them, the crowd had gone quiet, for they knew not to startle a horse.

“He won’t attack, he’s not a warhorse.”

“How do you know?”

“He’s of a breed used for hunting down in Harad.” Lothíriel began to talk to the stallion in a kind, gentle voice. He couldn’t understand a word, but the horse flicked an ear forward and seemed to calm down. If she ever talked to him in that tone, Éomer thought, he’d yield too. Very slowly she took a step forward, but halted when the stallion jerked back.

“Don’t look at him,” Éomer whispered. “Pretend you’re ignoring him.”

She nodded, all the while continuing to talk to the stallion in that soft, seducing voice. Telling him she was his friend, Éomer guessed, and not to be afraid. The rope in his hand went slack as the horse took a step towards them. Then another one. Taking his advice, Lothíriel paid the stallion no heed.

“Yes, that’s how to do it,” Éomer murmured. “Let him come to you.”

Another step. Still not looking directly at him, Lothíriel held out her hand to the stallion. A pity he had not had the time to give her one of the carrots in his pocket. Moving slowly, Éomer rolled up the rope, still ready to let it out again or jump between the horse and Lothíriel.

All the stallion’s attention was on the princess now. He hesitated briefly, then lowered his head to snort in her hand. Her voice dropped further while the other hand crept up to stroke his neck and scratch him under the poll. The horse relaxed visibly.

“What a beauty he is,” she breathed.

Éomer recognised the tone of her voice: she was smitten. How ironic that he had wanted her to have the best of the Riddermark’s horses, only to have her fall for one from Harad instead.

Doing his best to project being harmless, he slowly approached the pair. The stallion briefly flicked an ear back, but bewitched by her whispering stayed put. Éomer ran a hand across his back, noting the well muscled hindquarters, built for speed. With his gracefully arched neck, the refined head and his liquid eyes, he was indeed a beauty. And those large nostrils longed to drink the wind.

While he was too lightly built to carry a fully armoured knight, he would suit Lothíriel perfectly. But a stallion? They needed a firm hand, could she provide that? Éomer was determined not to have her endanger herself.

“Wiglaf,” he said quietly.

“Yes, lord?” the man answered from where he stood by the fence.

“You say he dislikes being ridden?”

“We gave up after a few tries. There are plenty of other horses we need to train, useful ones that can carry a warrior.” Wiglaf sounded defensive.

“I know how shorthanded you are,” Éomer said. “You’re doing a fine job here.”

“Thank you, lord. We just had no time to spare, I’m afraid.”

Lothíriel had continued patting and stroking the stallion. “Look, Éomer,” she said and pointed out a faded brand on his haunches, a complicated wriggling shape. “The sign of the Serpent’s royal stud.”

“Was he your husband’s?” he exclaimed.

At his voice, the stallion started, but she soothed him at once. “I don’t know, he could equally well have been Prince Narmacil’s. You’ve captured a pure bred Desert Wind horse. Few have ever been seen outside Harad.”

“You say they use them for hunting? He certainly looks fast.”

She nodded. “Yes, he’s built for speed. You need that when hunting with cheetahs.”

“What is a cheetah?”

“Oh, a kind of cat.”

The answer left Éomer puzzled. They used cats for hunting? But she’d have to explain another time. “Wiglaf says he won’t be ridden,” he said, coming back to the problem at hand.

“He would be trained to different aids.” Lothíriel looked up eagerly. “But I’ve ridden Haradric horses. If you get me a saddle–”

“Not so fast,” Éomer interrupted. “You will get him used to you first, groom him, lead him round, spoil him rotten no doubt, and then after a couple of days we’ll start getting him accustomed to a saddle.”

Her eyes flew up to him. “We take him back to Edoras with us?”

“Of course, he’s yours.” When her face lit up, he held up a hand. “But you’ll let me judge if it’s safe for you to ride him. I would never forgive myself if you had an accident.”

“He won’t throw me,” she said with absolute confidence. But then she bit her lip. “However, I can’t possibly accept him. He’s far too valuable.”

“It’s a case of him accepting you, not the other way round.” He remembered the day he had first set eyes on Firefoot and let go of any lingering resentment. The heart had its own rules and could not be commanded. He just wanted her to be happy.

But despite his words, she still hesitated. “I shouldn’t.”

“But you want to.”

“Yes, very much so.”

“Then he’s yours.”

“Thank you,” she said simply and leant against the stallion’s neck. “I wish I could repay you somehow for all your kindness. In any way at all.”

At once Éomer’s unruly mind threw up pictures of how she could do so.

She really shouldn’t say things like that.


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

The next day Amrothos left for Gondor, but got off to a late start. Which was not surprising, considering the tankards of ale they had emptied the night before, Éomer thought when they assembled in the courtyard below Meduseld to send him off. The furry feeling in his mouth and an insistent throbbing behind his temples brought back memories of Cormallen.

Meduseld’s cook Freawaru had served her evil tasting mint and fennel tea at the breakfast table, which was supposed to make you feel better, but at first just made death seem all the more attractive by comparison. The only concession to him being the lord of the hall was a jar of honey to sweeten the foul brew.

The corners of Lothíriel’s mouth quirked when she spotted the two of them. Éomer just hoped he did not look quite as seedy as Amrothos. At least the chilly wind had a reviving effect.

A groom from the royal stable led up Mellon and Amrothos’s own horse. Éomer had also organised a couple of riders to escort his friend as far as Minas Tirith, where he was heading to take part in the celebration of the victory over Sauron. Most of the nobility of Gondor would be there, and Éomer had been invited too, but he preferred to spend the day with his own people.

While Lothíriel fussed over Mellon one last time, feeding him carrots and stroking him, Tarcil inundated his uncle with messages to his cousin Alphros.

“Make sure to tell him about Lýtling,” he said, “that I have my own real Rohirric war pony. And that we took the Paths of the Dead. And that Éothain has taught me how to hit a target from horseback. And–”

“Enough,” Amrothos laughed, then winced. “I promise to deliver a full report of all your doings. But if you want to make sure Alphros hears about all your exploits, you just have to get your mother to write to Dol Amroth regularly.”

He took Éomer’s arm and pulled him a little apart. “My friend, a quick word with you.” He cast a glance over his shoulder at Lothíriel and lowered his voice. “You’ll look after her.” It was a command, not a question.

Éomer inclined his head. “I will defend her with my life if necessary.”

Amrothos measured him with his eyes, but did not look surprised. What rumours had he heard? “Do I need to ask you about your intentions?”

“I hold your sister in the highest respect,” Éomer said stiffly. “If you think I would offer her the insult of–”

“No, no.” Amrothos held up his hand. “I trust your honour, my friend.” He watched his sister for a moment longer. “She seems happy enough here, more relaxed than at home at least, if not her former self. Perhaps that is what she needs: a fresh start far away from home. So I wish you luck.” He sighed. “Ever since she returned from Harad, she’s been like a woman carrying a heavy weight of stone.” His voice sank. “But if you add as much as a pebble to that load, know that I will call you to account, king or not.”

“You’d have every right.” Éomer caught sight of Khuri standing on the stairs above them, her arms crossed on her chest, watching them through narrowed eyes. “You might have to wait in line though.”

Amrothos suddenly grinned and clapped him on the back. “True. But I could always mop up the pieces after she’s through with you.”

Éomer grinned back. “How kind of you.”

Amrothos took hold of his horse’s reins, ruffled Tarcil’s hair one last time and finally turned to say good-by to his sister. They looked at each other for a long moment, then she threw her arms around him.

“Take care, little one,” Amrothos whispered into her hair. “Don’t do anything foolish.”

“You’re a right one to talk.” She gave him a wobbly smile. “Don’t take any risks chasing pirates. Remember, there’s always more of them to be had.”

He nodded. “I’ll be careful. And if you need us, send a courier. I will come.”

“I know. But I’m in good hands.”

They hugged one more time, before Amrothos mounted his horse.

Lothíriel took a step back and drew Tarcil to her side. “And stay away from strong drink,” she quipped. Her voice was light, but her arms went around her son as if for support.

Amrothos grimaced. “Good advice, but a little too late.” After a last, lingering look he spurred his horse and trotted out the courtyard.

Lothíriel hugged her son closer, but the boy wriggled out of her grip. “Mummy, let go. People will think I’m a baby.”

She loosened her hold. “I’m sorry.”

“May I go and play with Éoric and Éormenred?” Tarcil asked. “They’ve got a puppy. Mistress Eanswith said it was all right.”

“Yes, of course,” she agreed. “As long as Khuri goes with you.”

The boy skipped away, his uncle half forgotten already. Lothíriel straightened her shoulders and gave a small sigh. She started when Éomer offered her his arm. “Shall we go back inside?” he asked gently. “You look cold.” And lonely, but he didn’t say that.

“Thank you.” She took his arm and they ascended the steps. “What were you talking about to my brother?”

“Oh, he just worries about you.” There was no need to go into the details.

“I worry about him too.” They stopped outside Meduseld and turned to watch the view. “About all of my brothers of course, but he’s the most reckless. He offered to put off his departure, you know, but I told him to return home.”

“You didn’t want him to stay?”

“I did, but he doesn’t belong here, he misses the sea.” Below them, they saw her brother’s party pass the gate. “Also he’s our best captain. Amrothos can read wind and current as if it were an open book; he’s nowhere as much at home as on the deck of a ship.”

Éomer could well believe that. During his visit to Dol Amroth, Amrothos had dragged him all over the _Sea Hawk_ , his war galley, and Éomer had learnt far more than he had ever wanted about oars, ship’s rigging, the effect of different hull shapes on speed and other nautical mysteries.

The riders struck the Great West Road and headed east, towards Gondor. Lothíriel sighed again. “Father needs him. So really it’s best if he goes. It will make me less noticeable too, I suppose.”

“What do you mean by that?” Éomer asked, surprised.

“He’s rather flamboyant, isn’t he? But I just want to live quietly, causing as little talk as possible.”

Éomer looked at her standing there, dressed in her usual muted colours, it was true, but with her golden torc glinting at her throat. Tall and slim, her pale skin in dramatic contrast to her black hair, grey eyes large and beautiful… She had as much chance of going unnoticed as one of the Mearas amongst a herd of goats.

Lothíriel was still staring into the distance. “Sometimes I feel like a ship adrift,” she said in a low voice, as if to herself, “with Tarcil and my family being my only anchors.”

Éomer would have been happy to offer himself as her anchor, her harbour, anything at all, however nautical. But he felt that she would not accept more than his silent support at the moment.

They stood in this way until the riders passed out of sight behind one of the foothills, then she turned away. “I think I’ll retire to my room for a bit,” she said. “Excuse me.”

The doorwardens threw open the doors of Meduseld as she approached, but on the threshold she paused and looked back over her shoulder. “Thank you.”

***

Yet that afternoon she came down to the training grounds poised and serene, as if that moment of vulnerability had never happened. For the time being, Éomer had put her stallion in a paddock on his own, thinking he would be more relaxed there than in a stable. Lothíriel had brought some carrots along and proceeded to fulfil Éomer’s prediction that she would spoil the horse rotten.

Over the next days they fell into an easy routine. She trained the stallion, grooming him, getting him used to her presence, leading him around on a halter, while Éomer worked out with his men or schooled his own young horses. Tarcil too came along most of the time, learning to jump his pony over small obstacles, often accompanied by the other children.

Khuri meanwhile showed his men a few of her tricks, making Éomer’s opinion of her abilities rise another notch. She would have made a good assassin, he could not help thinking. The men promptly used the skills she had taught them to good effect in the next tavern brawl.

Éothain put the whole lot of them on stable cleaning duty when they showed up the next morning very much worse for wear, but they were so proud of their resounding success, they did not mind shovelling manure. An impassive Khuri got a blow by blow account of the fight, including a demonstration how one of the lads had got out of a stranglehold by an opponent twice his size. Her sudden popularity did not seem to impress her, but she did show them a dozen novel ways to turn a tankard of ale into a deadly weapon.

Lothíriel’s stallion – whom she named Shirram after a seasonal desert wind – soon followed her about like a faithful dog. Once the two established a bond of trust between them, he proved well-schooled. Within a few days Lothíriel progressed to riding on a lunge line under Éomer’s supervision, teaching the stallion to listen to her and keep his focus.

He knew she was itching to try out Shirram’s pace, but he wanted her to establish her authority first. With a stallion, you had to be very firm who was in charge and alert to his every mood. Éomer wanted to make sure she would be able to handle him around other stallions, or worse, mares in heat.

Only if she managed to make Shirram think of her as the lead mare of his little herd, kind but in charge, would he do as she asked of him. But once he had accepted her, he would be her willing slave. A position Éomer would have been perfectly happy to occupy too, he thought whenever he saw her whisper endearments in the stallion’s ears or stroke his coat.

One afternoon, he rode over after training Firefoot to find her sitting on the ground, leaning back against a fence post. When Éomer unsaddled Firefoot and let him into the paddock, Shirram, who had been cropping the grass near her, looked up alertly. The two stallions had got used to each other. After some posturing, a few kicks and some impressive squealing, the older and more powerful Firefoot had established his dominance.

The Rohirrim were used to running stallions together, but even so Éomer watched them carefully for a bit. Once he was satisfied they would not get into a biting match just then, he crouched down next to Lothíriel where he could keep an eye on the horses at the same time.

Sitting there on the ground, her hair escaping from its simple braid, blotches of dried horse slobber on her shirt and a smudge of dirt on her cheek, she looked as relaxed as he had ever seen her. And as kissable.

Spotting her little desk on her lap, he grinned. “Drawing your black demon?” Had he been a jealous man, he would have resented the love she lavished on that horse.

“He’s very well behaved,” she protested. “But actually I’m drawing a picture of Tarcil and Lýtling. He wants to send it to Alphros.”

Éomer chuckled. “To show off his Rohirric war pony?”

“Yes, his pride and joy.” She gave him a warm smile.

“May I have a look?” he asked impulsively.

She hesitated, and he was about to apologise for the question, when she showed him the open page of her sketchbook.

“Just a few preliminary sketches of horses,” she said, sounding shy. “Nothing special really, but I want to get the details right.”

There was an ink drawing of Lýtling’s head, unfinished yet, and horses in different postures. She turned the page to show him a collection of rough sketches of hoofs, eyes and nostrils. Shirram, his ears flicked forward, was on the opposite side, obviously drawn with love.

Éomer did not touch the book, but let her choose what to show him. He had the feeling she was like a young filly being handled for the first time, not sure she could trust him and easily startled by a wrong move.

Suddenly he spotted a familiar line of mountains, nothing but a few strokes of the pen, a bit of ink, yet it somehow captured the view he had known all his life. “That’s Irensaga with the Starkhorn in the distance,” he exclaimed.

“Yes, we saw it on the ride back from the stud farm the other day.”

“It’s really good.”

She coloured. “Thank you. I’ve enjoyed drawing ever since I was a child, though of course there’s no comparison to my father’s court painters.”

He was still regarding the sketch, thinking how Éowyn used to love that particular view. In fact she had a favourite place, a small knoll out on the plains, from where you could see the whole mountain chain, crowned in eternal snow, as well as the green hill of Edoras with Meduseld glittering on top.

“Tell me, do you take commissions?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I was just thinking how much it would please my sister to have a drawing of that particular view, to remind her of the Riddermark.”

She hesitated. “Are you sure…?”

“Éowyn would love it. She’s happy in Ithilien with Faramir, of course, but from her letters I think she does miss the mountains and the wide plains at times.”

Lothíriel took a deep breath. “In that case I’d be honoured to make a drawing for her.”

“Thank you.” It was his turn to hesitate. “Is there any way I can repay you?”

“Please, you house and protect us, to say nothing of giving me Shirram.” She smiled at him. “I will never be able to thank you enough for your kindness to me and Tarcil. You may ask for anything from me.”

If she kept saying things like that, one day he would not be answerable for his actions! And she was completely sincere as well, with only gratitude and not the least hint of teasing in her voice. Did she place him in the category of older brother and thus safe? Or as a widow with a child, did she consider herself beyond the age of being courted? It made him want to bash his head against the fence post.

To distract himself Éomer looked out over the paddock, where the two stallions had settled down to grazing, though still keeping an eye on each other. How much easier a horse’s life was.

“Splendid,” he said. “There’s a place on the plains that Éowyn loves for its view. I’ll take you there sometime.”

“Will we ride there?” Her eyes sparkled.

“Of course. And yes, you can try out Shirram’s pace.”

“When shall we go?” She sounded as if she would have liked to set out that very instant. 

Éomer considered her progress with the stallion. “Soon. But tomorrow is the victory celebration, and I’ve got guests arriving already, so we’ll have to wait until that’s past. Not much longer though.”

“Good.” She flashed him a grin. “Well, horse lord, you and Firefoot had better get ready to eat our dust.”

It took all Éomer’s self-control not to grab her for a kiss then and there.


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

The influx of guests kept Éomer busy. Erkenbrand rode over from the Westfold and Déormund from Harrowdale, both accompanied by many men. Elfhelm meanwhile brought his whole family with him from Aldburg. Some of the riders were put up at one of Meduseld’s guest-houses but most stayed with family or friends in Edoras.

Weynild and her staff managed all the details, but everybody seemed to want to have a word with him. Also, ever since Éowyn had left, Meduseld had no lady to make guests feel welcome, smooth the way and take the myriad small decisions involved, and so all that work fell to him too.

Not that there was a shortage of candidates to fill that role. Thankfully Erkenbrand’s granddaughters were far too young, but Elfhelm and Déormund had each brought their daughters, as had every other lord with offspring of marriageable age. Éomer couldn’t make up his mind if they had not heard the rumours making the rounds in Edoras, or if they had decided on a last, desperate, all-out assault.

This did not improve his mood in any way. The year before, he had been drunk with their unexpected victory, the sheer surprise of still being alive when he had thought himself the last Lord of the Mark. But by now the realisation of how many men they had lost and the extent of the destruction wrought by Saruman’s orcs had sunk in. So many missing faces: Háma, who had stayed true to his ailing king, good-natured Dúnhere, brave Grimbold. He would never again see his uncle’s kind smile, never again play fox and hounds with Théodred and hear his booming laugh. They had won, true, but at what a cost.

Yet when at sunset he stepped out onto the platform outside Meduseld’s doors and looked down on the courtyard where the people of Edoras were assembling, he also reminded himself that they should celebrate the lives of those they had lost and thank them for their sacrifice. To himself he vowed that he would not squander their gift.

There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, just the heavens stretching enormous above them, darkening into night. In the west the sun slipped behind the mountains reaching up towards the Gap of Rohan, their icy peaks afire. Éomer waited until the last ray of light was quenched and shadows started to wrap around them, then he stepped to the edge of the platform and lifted his horn to his lips.

He blew with all his might, and after a moment his men joined in. The sound rang out over town and plain, rising brave and defiant, as it had done on the battlefields of the Mark and Gondor: the great horns of the North, calling home their dead.

Slowly the sound faded, leaving behind a resonating silence. Nobody talked, there was no coughing, not even the whisper of cloth as somebody moved. Éomer turned round and motioned for one of his guards to step forward and hand him the burning torch he carried.

He descended the stairs; silent as ghosts the crowd parted before him. Holding the torch high he took the road leading down to the gates, which was lined with people. All the lights in the houses had been extinguished, the windows thrown open to the night air. As he walked out between the barrows, followed by the silent crowd, the simbelmynë on the mounds glimmered like fallen snow in the twilight.

In the field between Théoden’s barrow, the last of the line, and the River Snowbourn logs soaked in oil had been stacked high. When he thrust the torch into the kindling, the fire caught at once. Sparks rose up into the sky like stars to wink out over their heads. The crowd sighed.

Éomer watched the flames for a moment, then stepped back, signalling for those around him to approach. First was an old woman with a younger one beside her, who carried a child in her arms. Both of them cast a piece of wood on the fire, silently mouthing a name. Tears ran down their cheeks.

One by one slowly other people came up. Werhard, the landlord of the Boar and Hounds, whose youngest son had fallen at the Hornburg, Leofrun with a solemn looking Hildwyn by her side. One man, his face carved with deep lines, added no less than four pieces of wood to the flames. The bonfire would be well fed tonight.

There was a pile of wood nearby, chopped up already, but most people brought theirs with them. Some had elaborate carvings, others just boughs from a favourite tree. Éomer went to find his squire Beortulf, in whose care he had left his own remembrance tokens, cut from an apple tree in his mother’s garden in Aldburg, where she had loved to sit and read.

Having retrieved them, suddenly in the shadows at the edge of the crowd he spotted Lothíriel, standing there with her arms wrapped round Tarcil, watching the scene. Something in her face called to him.

On impulse he went over to her. “Anybody can join in, you know.”

She jumped. “Éomer! What do you mean?”

“While it’s traditional in the Mark to remember the dead a year after they parted, there is no time limit set on grief.” For years after his parents had passed away, he had lit a fire in their memory. And she too had lost her mother at a young age, her cousin Boromir only recently in the war and perhaps others too. “If you feel like it, choose a piece of wood and add it to the fire for a loved one.”

Tarcil stirred. “Hildwyn says that the fire will carry a message to her father. Is that true?”

He crouched down next to the boy. “We believe so. Not a message exactly, but they will feel our love and know that we think of them and miss them.”

Tarcil looked up at his mother. “May I put a stick on the fire for Father?”

She sent an uncertain glance at Éomer. A Harad king to be remembered in a Rohirric _bael-f_ _ýr_? But why not? He doubted very much the dead cared about that kind of distinction.

“Yes of course,” he answered.

Lothíriel took one of her son’s hands, Éomer the other, and together they walked over to the pile of kindling, where Tarcil very carefully chose a piece of dark cherry wood. Hesitating a moment, Lothíriel too picked up two tokens. At the fire, people respectfully made room for them. Éomer motioned for them to go first.

Eyes closed and face screwed up in concentration, Tarcil threw his piece into the flames. Trying to send a message to his father? Éomer had hardly ever heard Tarcil mention him. Did he realise he had been the enemy of his mother’s people? And here they stood beside the barrow of Théoden, who had slain the King of Harad, the boy’s uncle.

Lothíriel stepped up next. The warm light played across her face as she stared into the flames, eyes large and dark. Who did she think of as she slowly placed her pieces of wood in the fire, one after the other? But that was between her and her dead, not a question ever asked.

He had polished his tokens, but otherwise left them in their natural shape and just carved a rune on each. Éomer tossed the first piece into the heart of the fire. “Uncle,” he whispered under his breath, “long may you feast in the company our ancestors. Rest easy, knowing that you led our people to victory and that they have peace now. I swear I will do all to keep them safe and be worthy of your trust.”

Taking a deep breath, he cast in the second token. “Théodred.” His voice caught. “You were like an older brother to me. Know that you held the fords and your sacrifice was not for nothing, for we avenged you and our people came through darkness into light. I swear that while I live, your memory will not be forgotten.” A wave of loss coursed through him, old grief and new. “May the earth rest lightly on you.”

Staring into the flames, he reflected upon the many men he had led into battle, the friends and comrades he had lost over the years, as marshal, as king. He could have tossed a whole tree into the remembrance fire, he thought bitterly.

A light touch on his arm recalled him to the present. He found Lothíriel regarding him, not with pity – he could not have born that – but with understanding, as one who had walked the same path.

“Éomer,” she said, gently pulling him away from the fire. “You are not alone. You have friends.”

He nodded and took a step back. If only he could gather her up in his arms, hold her and be held. The certain knowledge of how much he needed her filled him, how empty and cold his life would be without her. But she wasn’t ready to hear that yet.

They stood and watched the fire for a while longer. It would not be the only _bael-f_ _ýr_ in the Mark that night, there would be many more throughout the land, in the dales and on the plains.

Suddenly he noticed that Lothíriel was shivering. A breeze had sprung up, and she was only wearing a light shawl over her gown. “Let’s go back,” he said and offered her his arm.

With Tarcil skipping along on her other side and Khuri melting out of the shadows to follow them, they took the road back up to Meduseld. The hall stood open to everyone, but many would choose to spend the night sitting round the _bael-f_ _ýr_ instead, talking, drinking and remembering the fallen, so he had donated some casks of ale. Already the first had been breached, he noticed. Oblivion would be in high demand tonight, even though it was only temporary.

With the resilience of youth, Tarcil had turned his mind to other things and started to bargain with his mother how long he would be allowed to stay up.

“Hildwyn says there will be songs after the food. May I listen for a while?”

Lothíriel frowned. “It might be too rowdy.” She cast Éomer a questioning look.

“Maybe later,” he said. “But not while a bard performs.”

“May I?” Tarcil begged. “It might be educational.” He pronounced the word carefully.

“Who told you so?” his mother asked, amused.

“Hildwyn’s mother. She explained some of the stories to us.”

“That’s very nice of Leofrun.” But still Lothíriel hesitated.

“Please, Mummy? Just for three songs.”

Éomer opened his mouth, but encountered an entreating look from Tarcil. He closed it again.

“All right,” Lothíriel said. When Éomer and Tarcil both grinned, her eyes narrowed. “What?”

“The first song at a remembrance feast traditionally tells the tale of Eorl the Young and the Battle of Celebrant,” Éomer explained.

“Let me guess,” Lothíriel said. “It’s very long.”

“Yes.”

“I should have known.” She shook her head in loving exasperation at her son. “But you, my lord king, disappoint me. You should have warned me. What kind of misguided male solidarity is this?”

Éomer’s mood lifted at her light-hearted banter. He tucked her hand more safely into the crook of his arm. “I too was young once.”

“Young and foolish?”

“Yes, now I’m just old and foolish.” Especially where a certain princess from Gondor was concerned.

Oblivious to his thoughts, Lothíriel chuckled.

However, at the doors to Meduseld, she disengaged her hand. “I mustn’t keep you from your guests any longer.”

“But aren’t you eating at the high table?” He had counted on having her protection.

“No, I’ve promised Leofrun I’d sit with her.”

“But you’re a princess,” he protested. “A queen. My honoured guest.”

“And trying to live quietly, remember? You’re very kind, but my mind is made up.”

The steel in her voice was no less keen for being wrapped in velvet. She swept him a curtsy, took Tarcil’s hand and slipped away into the crowd.

Éomer looked after her in frustration, but had his attention claimed by Déormund of Harrowdale coming up just then, accompanied by his daughter Déorwenna. Out of politeness to his old friend, he ended up ascending the dais with a lady on his arm after all, albeit the wrong one. And not only that: he noticed with dismay that Elfhelm’s eldest daughter had been placed next to him, with her younger sister on her father’s other side. The chase had commenced, and the only huntress he would have liked to surrender to had quit the field.

Since there was no lady of the hall to greet their guests and address a few words to them, Éomer opened the _bael-feorm_ , the remembrance feast, himself. The servants had poured the traditional mead, so he raised his cup and bid all welcome. He kept his speech short though, and once everybody had shared the first drink in memory of the fallen, he sat down for the food to be served.

Erkenbrand leant forward from his seat. “So tell me, Éomer, when are you finally going to find a queen to do the honours of your hall?” he asked with the good cheer of a spectator who had no horse in the race, his daughters being married already. His booming voice carried to all the nearby tables and caused a distinct hush.

Éomer studiously avoided looking towards Lothíriel sitting with Leofrun and the other widows. “All in good time.”

“Well, don’t wait too long,” Erkenbrand said. “It would please our people to see the House of Eorl renewed.”

Éomer winced. Wonderful. Now if he asked Lothíriel to marry him, she would think he saw her in the manner of a broodmare. “Thank you, my friend.” A distraction was clearly in order. Luckily he knew the other man well. “By the way, do you still have that stallion by Thundercloud out of Brightcoat, the one with the two white socks?”

His ploy worked a treat. All thoughts of finding his king a bride gone from his mind, Erkenbrand launched into a discussion of horses, in which soon everybody took part.

Wanting to be good host, Éomer turned his attention to the women sitting beside him. Since he had served in Elfhelm’s éored as a young rider, he had known his daughters from the time they were children. But his elevation to king seemed to awe them so much that they answered his questions about life in Aldburg only shyly, with much blushing.

By contrast Déorwenna, who had taken the seat on his other side with complete self-assurance, sent him glances from under her lashes and smiled invitingly. The youngest child and only daughter of a doting father, she had probably never been gainsaid in her entire life. Éomer had not seen her for a while and had been surprised to find her grown into a beauty with hair the colour of ripe wheat and cornflower blue eyes.

She seemed keen to try out her newly discovered power over men, and in the past he might have enjoyed exchanging banter with her. The girl had a quick wit, sometimes bordering on the impertinent, but so charmingly delivered that everybody forgave her. Whoever married her would have his hands full, Éomer thought. He found it amusing enough talking to her, yet he could not help thinking that next to Lothíriel all these girls looked immature.

He wanted an equal, a woman knowing her mind and able to hold her own against him, yet above all somebody who saw him for himself. A queen but also a wife, a friend, a lover.

Repeatedly he caught himself looking towards Lothíriel, who was talking animatedly to Leofrun and her other friends. She wore an unadorned, dark blue dress that she probably thought suitable to her widowhood, unlike the bright dresses of the young girls around him, but its simple lines only served to highlight her soft curves. The hall being warm, she had put her shawl away, baring white shoulders and the golden torc around her graceful neck, which did not exactly help to make her inconspicuous either.

He would have liked to catch her eye, but the only time she glanced his way, she quickly looked away again. Why couldn’t she have sat at the high table, the evening would have been so much more bearable.

It was a relief to have the bard step forward. He would be able to lean back and listen to the music, instead of having to make conversation, although Déorwenna bent over to whisper observations in his ears as the hall hushed.

King Théoden’s bard had retired, but his son Gléowaerd had inherited his father’s talent. He sat down at his harp and told the story of Eorl, followed by a new composition of his own about the ride of the Rohirrim. Éomer had not heard the lay before and found himself gripping the arms of his chair when the bard sang of how Éowyn faced the nazgûl king. It made a splendid tale, but finding her lying on the battlefield and thinking her dead had been the worst moment of his life.

A movement caught his attention: Lothíriel leant forward. He had no idea how much of the Rohirric she understood, but her eyes seeking his own felt like a lifeline. Nobody else noticed as Gléowaerd went on to sing of the Rohirrim’s onslaught sweeping across the battlefield to be checked by the arrival of the corsair ships.

Éomer remembered the lust of battle gripping him as he had raised his sword in defiance, then laughing with incredulous joy when Aragorn unfurled Elendil’s standard. He had thought to make a worthy end there, though nobody would ever know of the last King of the Mark, and instead now he sat in Meduseld, listening to his bard telling the tale.

Thunderous applause shook the hall when Gléowaerd finished. With a bow the bard made room for a couple of fiddlers and drummers playing traditional ballads while he took a break.

After the third song, Éomer saw Khuri shepherd a yawning Tarcil away to his bed, but Lothíriel stayed, looking entranced by the music. Throughout the evening Gléowaerd took turns with the other musicians to play more tunes, some slow and sorrowful, some quick and lively. At another occasion there might have been dancing as well, but not at a _bael-feorm._

In one of the breaks, Éomer got up in order to stretch his legs and walk around the hall to talk to his guests. Déorwenna rose at the same time and took his arm with a pert smile.

“May I come with you?” she asked.

Short of shaking her off roughly, there did not seem to be anything he could do, so he nodded, though he did not like to look so particular. If only Lothíriel married him, that would put an end to such unwanted attentions.

Making the round of the hall, he stopped at every table for a short word with his men. When he got to where Lothíriel sat with her friends, he had the distinct impression that the other women looked at him with reproach for having Déorwenna on his arm. But really, what was he supposed to do? Even Eanswith, ever cheerful, regarded him with a frown. The only person who showed not the least trace of resentment was Lothíriel herself, who gave him a polite smile.

“Are you enjoying the music?” he asked, trying to break the ice.

“Yes indeed. I wish I spoke more of the language, but even so I find the songs moving.”

He smiled at her in approval. “In time you’ll start to understand better.”

“Perhaps.” Her eyes moved to Déorwenna. “Will you introduce your companion?”

“Of course. Princess Lothíriel, this is Déorwenna, daughter of Déormund, Lord of Harrowdale. If you remember, we passed it on the way from Dunharrow.”

“I do.” She rose and inclined her head. “Well met, Déorwenna.”

Faced with such a regal manner, Déorwenna instinctively dropped into a curtsy. “Thank you, my lady.”

Lothíriel gave a cool nod of acknowledgement. “Your father very kindly offered us refreshments.”

“It was an honour,” Déorwenna stammered.

Éomer could sympathise with her confusion. He had forgotten how imposing Lothíriel could be, descended from the tall ship kings of Númenor and with a thousand years of princes of Dol Amroth in her bearing. Far from home amongst strangers she was impressive; if she ever came into her own she would be absolutely magnificent. He wanted her for his queen.

Déorwenna had caught herself again. “The sweet little boy sitting with you earlier on, is he yours? How old is he?” she asked.

Lothíriel’s eyes softened at the mention of Tarcil. “Yes, he’s my son. Tarcil is six.”

“So old?” Déorwenna exclaimed. “Really?”

Éomer frowned. What was she trying to imply? But Lothíriel seemed unperturbed. “Yes, really,” she said, her voice even more gentle. The nod she gave them was very much a dismissal though. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Déorwenna.”

“The pleasure was mine,” the girl answered.

They moved on, but before they were out of earshot Déorwenna leant over. “Is that Haradric woman, the one which was skulking around in the shadows, with Lady Lothíriel also?”

Éomer came to a halt. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh just because my father was saying how strange it is to see a Haradrim, one of our enemies, in Meduseld.” She tittered. “But then Lady Lothíriel was married to their king, wasn’t she? With that torc, she looks like one of them herself.”

Enough was enough. Éomer dropped her arm. “When you are a little older and have seen a bit more of the world, you’ll find that it holds many strange things.” At a nearby table he spotted Éothain and waved him over. “Lady Déorwenna is tired, I think. Could you take her back to her seat so she can rest?”

“Of course, Éomer King,” Éothain answered at once. He seemed to relish his task.


	9. Chapter 8

_Warning: this chapter contains discussion of still birth._

* * *

**Chapter 8**

Cheered to be unencumbered at last, Éomer continued his round of the hall, for he wanted to have a word with every guest, even if only a quick one. It would have been more pleasant with Lothíriel at his side, but after his frosty reception earlier on he didn’t fancy trying his luck again.

The doors to Meduseld stood open. When he went outside to catch some fresh air, he saw the _bael-f_ _ýr_ in the fields below still burning bright. The distant sound of singing floated up on the air. Inside the hall, one of the fiddlers launched into a popular drinking song and many of the men joined in, some decidedly off-key. Freawaru, Meduseld’s cook, would be busy next day brewing her special tea.

When he went back inside, he saw that Elfhelm’s wife had already left, taking her daughters with her, though a pouting Déorwenna still sat at the high table. Lothíriel and her friends seemed to have retired too, which was probably wise. He did not begrudge his guests the ale or the oblivion it brought, but he did not intend to stay to the bitter end either.

Hailed by Gamling, one of the men who had been driven back to the caverns with him at the battle of Helm’s Deep, he stopped to have a word with the old rider. The man was still as spry as ever and never tired of telling the tale how he fought at the side of Gimli the dwarf.

But suddenly through the press of people he spotted a dark head amongst all the blond. What was Lothíriel doing still in the hall? Half hidden behind some pillars, she was standing with the other women in front of the tapestry of Eorl the Young on his horse Fréaláf, discussing something.

Excusing himself, he made his way towards her and saw her gesturing at the picture, bending forward to trace the interlaced patterns forming a frame around the tapestry.

He had nearly reached her when a group of riders staggered by drunkenly, Westfold men by their accent. Unaware of them, Lothíriel straightened up and took a step back. That moment one of them reached out and grabbed her round the waist.

“Come here, my pretty,” he called.

With a curse Éomer sprang forward.

He was too late.

In one smooth motion Lothíriel hammered her elbow into the rider’s throat. The man’s head snapped back. She spun, kicked the man’s feet out from under him and when he fell to his knees grabbed him by the hair and bared his throat. Steel glittered in her hand.

It happened so quickly, Éomer was still a few steps away. Everybody froze in disbelief.

Breathing fast, Lothíriel stared down at the man, who looked back, eyes rimmed with white. Instantly sober, he knew that if he made one wrong move, he was dead.

The hackles on Éomer’s neck rose, as if in the presence of a wild animal. Lothíriel did not see them, she was caught in some vision all her own.

“Lothíriel,” he said very gently.

She did not react.

“Lothíriel,” he said again.

The blade at the man’s throat trembled. She lifted her eyes, dark and enormous, to him. He knew that look, had encountered it before in men who had seen things that haunted their dreams.

He took a slow step forward and held out his hand. “Lothíriel, you are safe.”

At the back of the motionless crowd Éothain made as if to interpose himself – he too knew how volatile the situation was, how unpredictable Lothíriel’s reaction might be. Without looking at him Éomer shook his head and advanced another step. He was within reach of her knife now.

“Lothíriel, you are safe,” he repeated. “I swear I’ll protect you.”

She blinked and returned to the present. “Éomer?”

He released his breath in relief. “Yes. Can you please let the man go?”

Only now did she seem to notice the rider she held at knife point. With a conscious effort she released her grip and took a step back. The man sagged at her feet. He had to know he had come as close to death as he had ever been in battle.

At Lothíriel’s white face and shaking hands, sudden fury took Éomer. “Éothain,” he said. “Throw this man in gaol.”

“Yes, lord.” Éothain shouldered his way through the crowd, collecting a couple of guards along the way. “At once.”

“But Éomer King…” the man’s friends protested.

“Lock them all up. How dare you molest the princess,” he snarled.

Faced with his wrath, they recoiled. He very much wanted to kill somebody, anybody at all. Lothíriel had been accosted in his own hall, and he had been unable to prevent it. And who had taught her to fight like that? As for the knife she still held in trembling hands, where had that come from?

Leofrun and Eanswith had gathered round her, shielding her from the many curious glances of the crowd. He would have liked to take her in his arms and comfort her, but that might not be welcome. Having another man thrust himself at her against her will was the last thing she needed right now.

Lothíriel drew herself up, regaining some of her remarkable self-control. The knife had vanished again. “If you don’t mind, I will retire now.”

“Of course.” He offered her his arm.

As he escorted her across the hall and up onto the dais, whispers sprang up around them. So much for being inconspicuous. He ignored everybody and led her through to the corridor outside the private quarters. Once the door had closed behind them, she let go of his arm and sagged against the wall.

“Lothíriel, are you all right?” Éomer asked, then cursed himself for such a inane question. Of course she wasn’t all right.

She waved his concern away. “I’m fine, don’t mind me.”

“Shall I get Khuri for you?” He had a vague idea the presence of another woman might help, though he didn’t quite know how.

“Please don’t. She’ll only feel guilty. I will be better in a moment.” Lothíriel made a helpless gesture with a hand. “It was just the remembrance fire…and then that rider…it brought it all back, I suppose. I’m not usually that easily startled.”

What did the fire have to do with it? She didn’t make a lot of sense. “Do you want to lie down in your rooms?” he asked.

Lothíriel shook her head. “I just need a moment to compose myself first. Khuri will come to check on me, and I don’t want to upset her. But I’m fine here, you don’t have to dance attendance on me. Your guests will want you.”

“Nonsense.” How could she think he would just abandon her here in this state. “The only thing they want tonight is enough ale.” He opened the door to his own rooms. “Come and sit down for a moment until you feel better.”

She hesitated briefly, but followed his invitation. The servants had left a lamp burning, so he went round the chamber and lit some candles before kneeling by the banked fire in the fireplace. Lothíriel took one of comfortable chairs there, while he stirred the embers with a poker and put on fresh wood.

Éomer sat back on his heels and frowned at her. “You’re cold.”

“Please, I’ll be fine.” However, he could see her shivering. From delayed reaction?

She had left her shawl behind in the hall, so he looked round for a covering for her bare shoulders, but apart from an old sheet that he used when oiling and sharpening his sword, he had nothing to offer her.

On the spur of the moment, he pulled the coverlet off the bed and wrapped it around her. It was far too big and heavy, but she burrowed into the thick wool gratefully. The dark green decorated with gold thread suited her, he thought. His colours.

In order that she would not feel uncomfortable, he had left the door ajar. Now there came a soft knock, and Weynild entered with a tray. “I’ve brought the princess some tea.”

“You are best of housekeepers,” he exclaimed.

Lothíriel gave her a shaky smile. “Yes indeed. And you’re all so kind to me.”

Weynild poured her a mug; the refreshing scent of lemon balm filled the air. “Please, you’re our guest. And you’ve been treated abominably.” She sounded personally offended. “I assure you, those louts in gaol will get nothing but thin gruel while they’re there.”

With sudden amusement Éomer recalled the time he had occupied that very same cell at Wormtongue’s instigation. Weynild had brought him his meals personally and the cook had prepared all his favourite dishes to keep up his spirits.

Wriggling her hands free of the coverlet, Lothíriel wrapped her fingers around the mug. “What will happen to the man? He was drunk after all.”

Éomer frowned. “That is no excuse. Do you demand wergild for the assault on your person?”

“What? No, that won’t be necessary. And anyway, I don’t want to cause more talking.”

He would have liked to take the man to task himself, but she was probably right to let it go. Even so he resolved to let the rider stew in gaol for a while, to make him grovel.

“Very thin gruel,” Weynild muttered to herself, apparently thinking along similar lines.

Lothíriel cradled her mug. “I feel better already, thank you.” Some colour had returned to her face.

The housekeeper put the teapot on a low table by the window. She had also brought a plate of small nut cakes, Éomer saw.

Weynild hesitated for a moment. “Do you want me to stay, my lady?”

“Oh no, please don’t let me keep you from your duties, I’ll be fine now,” Lothíriel assured her.

She did not seem to be the least bothered by being in his rooms late at night. Éomer by contrast was very much aware of his massive fourposter bed standing in the shadows, the sheets all awry from when he had pulled the bedspread off. On the other hand she had just given a demonstration of what would happen to any man who took liberties with her.

The housekeeper dropped a curtsy. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Thank you, Weynild,” Éomer said.

“My lord king.” She left, softly closing the door behind her.

While Lothíriel curled up in her chair, he sat down cross-legged on the rug in front of the hearth. Giving her enough space and time to regain her composure was the only thing he could do for her, Éomer felt. She stared into the fire, absentmindedly sipping her tea, and he was content to watch her.

All they could hear was the faint sound of music from the hall and the crackle of the fire. Éomer could almost imagine that he shared a quiet drink with his wife before retiring to bed. In his mind’s eye he pictured leaning back against her chair, and when she bent down for a kiss, pulling her into his lap. Then he would undo the braids tightly wound around her head and run his fingers through that luxurious mass of black hair. And she would give him a smile that was only meant for him.

He forced himself to look away, lest she see the naked need in his eyes. 

“I don’t even know if it was a girl or a boy,” she whispered suddenly. Gazing at the embers, she looked fragile, caught up in a world of her own.

Éomer felt instinctively that he had to tread lightly. “What do you mean?” he asked in a gentle voice.

“I cast a piece of wood on the remembrance fire for it. My little one that I didn’t even feel quickening. It never got a chance at life, but I hope it is comforted.”

He caught his breath. She had lost an unborn child? Feeling utterly out of his depth, he didn’t know what to say.

“They nearly got me too,” she went on in that sleepwalker’s voice. “For they were trained assassins, not drink-sodden riders.” She looked up at last, her eyes bleak. “They did not think a soft northerner would know how to defend herself, but Khuri had begun to teach me after that first time.”

His mind was still trying to make sense of what she’d said. “You got attacked by assassins?”

“Three of them. I got one.” She frowned in recollection. “By sheer surprise, I think.”

“Didn’t you have guards?”

“Oh yes. They killed the other two, but not fast enough.”

With every word she said, his outrage was growing. “What about your husband? Didn’t he take care of you at all?”

“He tried.” She sounded tired. “The first attack happened while we were out, just the two of us and a couple of guards. He was showing me the market, for he knew how much I disliked being cooped up in the palace all the time. After that he refused to take me anywhere without a full company of guards.” She rolled up her left sleeve and showed him a thin blade in a leather sheath. “And I got Khuri to teach me how to handle a knife, so I could defend Tarcil and myself.”

So that was where she had got the knife from. He had never before noticed how she always wore garments with loose sleeves. The thought of her needing such a device sickened him. He lowered his head. “I’m sorry you were reminded of that in Meduseld, under my protection, where you should have been safe. I failed you.”

“No! It is I who is sorry. I broke the peace of your hall, ruined the feast.”

“That’s the last thing you should worry about. Anyway, they’re still drinking and laughing. They will have lots to talk about.”

She frowned. “Khuri won’t be pleased. She always says my best defence is how harmless I look. As it is, she feels guilty.”

“Why is that?”

“When the assassins attacked, she grabbed Tarcil and ran. Luckily he was so small that he doesn’t remember.” Lothíriel shrugged. “Khuri wonders if she could have made a difference. But she had her orders: Tarcil’s life was the most important.”

“I suppose your husband wanted to save his son and heir.” Éomer felt bitter. The man had not valued his wife; no surprise there.

“Oh no, it was me who had given those orders.” She stared down at her cup of tea, brooding. “But I never thought to be attacked in my own rooms; the royal quarters were supposed to be impregnable. After that I did not feel safe anywhere anymore.” She looked up. “Arantar was furious. Furious and grieved for our baby. I was just afraid. It couldn’t have happened without somebody in his family complicit.”

“It must have been like living in a snake pit.” Thank the Valar she had escaped from that.

“Yes.” She sounded desolate. “I was ill for a long time afterwards. I think that was when I started to hate Harad.”

Only then? He would never understand her. Lothíriel took another sip of tea, and he would have liked a drink too, only something considerably stronger. He picked up the poker and thrust it into the embers of the fire, wishing he could have used it on those assassins instead.

“I’m sorry to bother you with my troubles when you have so much on your mind already,” she said, “but I felt that I owed you an explanation. I drew steel in your hall.”

“Lothíriel, if in any way I can lighten the heavy burdens you carry, even only a little bit, I would consider myself privileged.”

“You do lighten them, just by listening. I’ve never told the whole story to anybody else.” She gave him a shy smile. “Everybody is so kind here. It’s good to have friends.”

Just a friend. But he would be whatever his lady needed from him.

“You may call on me whenever you wish.” He hesitated. “You say you’ve never told anybody. But what about your family, don’t they support you? Your father and brothers love you.”

“I know,” she sighed. “And I love them dearly too. But my father would like me to forget everything that happened, to be the flower-garlanded maiden he named me, carefree and happy. But I cannot unmake myself, cannot unlearn my experiences. And I wouldn’t want to.” There it was again, the hidden steel. She fixed him with a sudden sharp glance. “I bear no grudge towards Denethor, you know.”

“He used you,” Éomer protested.

“Of course he did. It was his right as my liege. And he used himself and his sons just as hard. It was a sad ending for a great man.”

“How can you say that after what he did to you?”

Lothíriel rubbed her forehead. “Oh, I admit I was lucky. My fate could have turned out very differently.”

She could have spent the rest of her life in Harad, certainly. The thought did not bear thinking about.

“And yet,” she said, “Denethor just did what was necessary. I’m sure you too have sent young riders into battle.”

“That’s not the same!”

“It was simply a different sort of battle. My uncle knew, and so did I.” She drew the bedspread more tightly around herself. “Though I admit there were moments when I cursed him, when I was afraid.”

And him all unaware of it. Éomer could not help thinking that he should have known, ought to have felt her distress somehow. “It should never have been necessary.”

“No. Just as it should not be necessary to send young riders into battle.” She sighed. “If only we lived in a world where men have peace who wish for it.”

Éomer vowed he would do everything in his power to make it so. “One day we will.”

She smiled down at him. “I hope so. But in the meanwhile do not feel sorry for me. I want respect for what I did, not pity. After all I was lucky. Others the same age as me, young boys, have paid the ultimate price: their lives.”

He still could not see it that way. “They had chosen their path, they were warriors.”

“I considered myself one too. A fine blade in my uncle’s hand.” She shook her head, a wry, inward-looking expression on her face. “I can’t believe how young and naive I was. The world is so much more complicated than what you think at eighteen.”

“I wish I could have spared you the experience.”

She put her head to one side. “Of course you do. You’re just like my father.”

First a friend, now her father? This was getting worse and worse. “In what way?”

“You carry the world on your shoulders, think yourself responsible for all under your care.”

“I am.” The bonds of command ran both ways. He demanded obedience from his men, but in return they had the right to expect him to look to their welfare, whatever the cost to him.

“Yet there are things you cannot protect your people from,” Lothíriel pointed out gently.

“Do you think I do not know?” He remembered his mother’s illness, how she had wasted away despite the healers’ best efforts. “Believe me, I know all about being powerless. Why, I haven’t even been able to keep my own sister away from the battlefield.”

“But still you fight.”

“Of course,” he answered simply.

She nodded. “You’ve been so good listening to me. But tell me, do you have anybody yourself, to talk to?”

He felt caught. In the past, if anything troubled him, he would have gone to Théodred for advice or talked it over with Éowyn. Now he might discuss military matters with Éothain or his Marshals, yet always there remained the fact that he was their king and the ultimate responsibility lay with him.

“You have nobody, do you,” Lothíriel said in a soft voice, regarding him closely.

“I…I suppose not.”

“It is as I had thought.” She leant forward in her chair. “I don’t want to impose, but if ever you need somebody to simply listen, or to talk things over with, I would be happy to help.”

Éomer inclined his head. “Thank you.” And he might even take her up on her offer. Not to confide his biggest headache, though.

“Good.” Lothíriel put down her mug and wriggled out of the bedspread. “It’s getting late, Khuri will be wondering where I am.” When he started to rise, she waved at him to stay seated. “Please don’t bother, I can let myself out.”

After a few steps, she paused and looked back. “And thank you again, I feel much better now.”

He bowed to her from the waist. “At your service, always.”

Lothíriel smiled. “Good night.” She opened the connecting door between their rooms.

Éomer made a strangled sound. “Lothíriel, the door.”

She paused on the threshold. “Oh. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Mind?” he croaked.

“I didn’t want Amrothos to make a fuss, but I feel safer having you within call, so I left it unlocked. In an attack every second counts.”

Éomer found his voice again. “Of course. You honour me with your trust.”

“Nonsense. I for one don’t pay the least attention to my brother’s silly fancies.”

“Thank you,” Éomer answered. However, he wasn’t quite sure if he should be flattered by her words or insulted by how harmless she thought him.

Lothíriel hesitated a moment longer. “Éomer,” she said suddenly, “do you intend to marry Lady Déorwenna?”

Taken by surprise, he stared at her. “What? Certainly not.”

“Good.”

He couldn’t help being pleased that she cared. Surely that was a positive sign?

Lothíriel went into her own chambers. “I don’t think she would make you a good queen. And as a king you have to use your head.” She swung the door closed. “Though I understand of course why you find her attractive.”

What? Éomer jumped up. “No!”

Too late. She was gone. With a groan he crossed the room and leant his head against the door. It had been unlocked all this time? Did the servants know? But they had to, after all they cleaned the rooms. Which meant that he was probably the last person in Meduseld to find out.

The wood was smooth and polished under his touch. He closed his eyes for a moment. His lady. Worldly-wise and innocent at the same time. Hard as steel one moment, fragile like glass the next. Seeing the man behind the king and yet so blind.

But at all times: driving him crazy.


End file.
